


Like a Bruise

by Shaish



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Adult emotions and some that aren't, Adulting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, And got surprised, And has had too long a time trying to find some chill, And trying to deal with those in Adult Ways (and some that Aren't), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Betrayal, Depression, Drinking as a temporary coping mechanism, F/M, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Friendsish back to Lovers, Gen, Graphic designer Steve, Happy Ending, If that's something you worry about, Just trust me it's barely worth mentioning, M/M, Mentioned Past Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter, Mentioned Past Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Mentioned past homophobia, Mentions of alcoholism, Natasha is a scheming cat, None of the main characters, Offscreen one night stand between Bucky and Lorraine out of vengeful spite because Bucky is angry, Ogling subway posters, PAST RELATIONSHIPS ARE MENTIONED BUT THAT'S ALL, Past Character Death, Pining, Rocker AU, Rockstar AU, Rockstar Bucky, Shitty Life Choices, Steve/Sam is a Past Thing and does not occur in the story, Trying saying that three times fast, and that offscreen one night stand, awkward texting, ish, mentioned past abuse, sam is an angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish
Summary: Ten years is a long time to hate someone, especially when you loved them first.





	Like a Bruise

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. First of all. _??????????????????????????? Where the heck did this come from._ I swear I couldn't sleep because of this and I ended up writing it in about a full day? ?? I don't. Know what happened. But it demanded to be written and I couldn't stop so here it is. I'm also impatient so it hasn't been beta'd. I looked it over but I apologize if there are any typos. Feel free to leave a comment with them if you notice any.
> 
> I've had a rockstar au in mind for a while, but it's always been on the back burner. I read a short one recently and I'm not sure if that's what kickstarted some part of my brain to finally write mine but, I don't know. I don't think ALL of this is exactly what I brainstormed but about 90% of it is. So, anyway. I hope you enjoy? Please let me know if you do. I love hearing what people think.
> 
> ALSO. There are two songs linked in the story with their titles and singer's names next to them in case the links don't work. You'll probably have to copy/paste them. I encourage you to listen to them but you don't have to. Bucky does sing both in his own variation, not really how the songs themselves sound, but those _are_ the songs he sings and the second one is the cover version I like, which is a bit slower than the original. The way Bucky sings it is a bit slower than that, but I couldn't find a cover like what I was imagining with a quick search.

_“And oh, it’s killin’ me inside, to know you were my life, the one I wanted, oh-”_

“Steve?”

 

_“-to know you were my life, the one ‘til the end of the line, but I guess we got there, oh-”_

 

“ _Stee-eeeve?_ ”

 

_“-’til the end of the line, but I guess we got there and I- I miss you every night, the love of my life, but I guess we got there-”_

 

 _“Steve!_ ”

His head jerks up. “Yes?!”

“Are you alright? I mean I know the band is great, but you look kind of red,” Lorraine says with a tilt of her head. It makes her blond waves catch the light from the window and turn them gold. For all that people tend to say they could be related, what with the blonde hair and blue eyes, he thinks she’s a lot prettier than he is.

“I’m fine,” Steve replies, blinking a few times to try and clear the slight sting at the backs of his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths and the tightness in his throat starts to fade away. “Just reminded me of being sixteen again,” he adds when he looks up and Lorraine’s still watching him.

She sighs dreamily and nods. “Yeah. What I wouldn’t give to be sixteen again with _him_. I bet he was a looker even then.”

“Yeah,” Steve finds himself saying, and makes himself tack on a, “Probably.” He looks back at the video she sent him, ended on a frame of Bucky Barnes smiling out at the crowd, and exes out of it, pulling up his project planner. A few more test designs and his presentation will be complete.

He glances at the clock in the bottom corner.

Six hours to go.

He opens up Photoshop.

 _No more Bucky Barnes. Time to get back to reality_ , he thinks, pulling up his work playlist and choosing something the opposite of the video.

\--

He takes a seat on the subway to head home, standing and offering it with a small smile when an elderly woman gets on. He leans against the door and looks around the car, stilling and hand tightening on his bag strap when he meets a pair of ice, gray-blue eyes. He starts breathing again when he realizes it’s just a poster, trying to calm his heart back down.

 _Christ. You’re not eighteen anymore. Relax_.

He looks back, eyes moving over Bucky’s face before moving onto the other members either side of him.

Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan, Montgomery ‘Monty’ Falsworth. They all look good, done up in smooth but varied, cutting styles with Bucky at the forefront in more leather than is really necessary. His hair’s gotten longer too, the sides pinned back and sweeping out at his shoulders, a few select bangs stylishly framing his eyes and face.

Steve looks away and rolls his eyes at himself.

 _You’re twenty-eight. Not eighteen, not sixteen, **twenty-eight**. Quit ogling a poster_.

...He looks back.

 

‘ _CONCERT THIS WEEKEND. ORDER TICKETS NOW BEFORE THEY’RE SOLD OUT!_ ’

 

Steve pulls his phone out, curious, and glances up at the poster a few times to type the url, hitting ‘enter’.

‘ _SOLD OUT_ ’

He smiles a little.

 _Good for you, guys_.

He closes out of the browser and puts his phone away.

\--

“Welcome back,” Sam greets from the couch.

“Thanks,” Steve returns, locking the door and putting his keys up on the hook, toeing off his shoes, “How was your day?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” comes Sam’s distracted reply.

“So, moderate to good sessions and terrible coffee,” Steve says.

Sam snaps his fingers and points at him without taking his eyes off the tv, some basketball game going.

“Who’s winning?” Steve asks on his way to his bedroom.

“You don’t wanna know,” Sam answers.

Steve drops his bag off next to his desk, then grabs a pair of pajama pants and a clean t-shirt. He takes a quick shower, then heads back out, hair damp, to find Sam standing in front of the tv with both fists in the air.

“You won?” Steve teases.

“Hell yes,” Sam answers, lowering his arms and turning the tv down, “Had faith the whole time.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve replies, “Pizza night?”

“Pizza night,” Sam agrees, stretching while Steve goes to grab his cellphone and place their orders. Sam wanders over after to where Steve’s leaning back against the counter, staring down at the floor. “How was _your_ day?” he asks, pressing a finger to the furrow between Steve’s brows and jerking him out of his thoughts.

Steve frowns. “You ever run into an ex long after you broke up and get masochistically curious?”

Sam’s eyebrows rise a bit. “Since I’m standing right here, stunning as ever, and Peggy’s in London, I assume you mean someone else?”

Steve cracks a small smile and shakes his head, but agrees, “Yes.”

Sam makes a noncommittal sound, pulling a bar stool over with a godawful screech that makes Steve both cringe and worry about the floor, and takes a seat. “Yeah, couple times.”

“Weird?” Steve asks.

“Little bit,” Sam answers, “Why? Have a run-in?”

“Kind of,” Steve replies. He taps his phone on and goes into his email, pulling up the video Lorraine sent him this morning and turning the screen to Sam. Bucky’s slightly tinny voice fills the apartment for a minute and Steve’s heart skips a small, involuntary beat (again). He shuts the video off after a minute.

Sam whistles and Steve’s lips twitch. “Can’t say I’ve heard him before.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Steve says, and Sam’s eyebrows rise a bit. “I think his soaring popularity is a semi-recent thing.”

Sam hums a vague agreement. “So, what you’re saying is it would be _real_ easy to dig up the dirt.”

“ _God_ , don’t tempt me,” Steve replies

Sam raises his hands in playful surrender, lips pulling up. “Depends how bad you wanna hurt. How’d it end?”

“Not nearly as nice as we did,” Steve answers, “By far.” Sam cringes a little and Steve sighs. “Broke each other’s hearts after growing up together.”

Sam winces. “Ooo. Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, uncrossing his arms from his chest when he realizes he _has_ crossed them. “I don’t know. It’s like seeing a dog stand out and then suddenly seeing dogs everywhere. Saw the video this morning and then saw a poster on the subway.”

Sam nods, then shrugs. “Up to you, man.”

Steve sighs again but nods back, moving to get the door when there’s a knock. They pay for the pizzas and take them to the living room to watch a movie, and Steve puts it all out of his mind as soon as he breathes in black olives and sausage.

\--------------------------------------------------

Lorraine stops by and sits against the edge of his desk in the morning. “Guess what I won,” she says.

“What?” Steve asks, glancing up from his computer. Her slow smile reminds him of a cat, he can practically see the coiling tail.

“Two tickets to The Commandos.”

Steve blinks and her smile slowly stretches into a grin.

They stare at one another and eventually, she sighs. “Sharon has a date and won’t come. Help me _Steeeeve_.” She looks woefully down at him. “You’re my only ho.”

Steve rolls his eyes, going back to his project. “Am not.”

“Okay, true,” she returns, “ _But_ , you _are_ the only other single person I know who both almost always has no plans and will fight off anyone who tries to grope me.”

Steve sighs.

She’s not wrong.

He can feel Lorraine staring at him and looks back over, sees her lower lip getting poutier and poutier.

 _God, I’m going to regret this_.

He sighs again and Lorraine beams.

“When is it?”

\--

“I’m just curious,” he tells his reflection that night, frowning up at his hair, “Lorraine wants a friend to go with and I’m just curious.” Besides, it’s not like Bucky’s probably even going to notice him in a sea of people, and even if he does, so what? That video Lorraine showed him wasn’t even _about_ him, even if the lyrics did remind him of them and their...mutual phrase, broken promise. They broke up _years_ ago. It’s fine.

Steve sighs and looks at his coat, frowning a little. He keeps seeing leather everywhere now, too. That’s probably why he’s wearing it.

Both unfortunately and fortunately, Sam’s not here to either tell him he looks good, bad, or that he’s going to regret this.

Steve takes a deep breath, makes himself turn off the bathroom light, grab his keys, put his shoes on, and leaves the apartment.

He takes the subway down to the closest stop and texts Lorraine, meeting her outside Madison Square Garden. He’s surprised to see so many people, that the line goes _around_ the building and down the block, even though he shouldn’t be. Of _course_ there’s a long line to see the guys perform. Bucky was always charming, and his music _is_ good, Steve can admit that.

Lorraine spots him first, done up in killer red lipstick and smokey black eyeshadow, with a black top and a (leather, seriously, it’s everywhere) skirt, and manages to come up to his chin in her high(er than usual) heels. She loops her arms through his with a smile and leads him straight to the head of the line. He frowns over at her and she smiles back, pleased.

“ _VIP_ tickets,” she explains.

Ah. Yeah. That would do it.

They show their passes to the two guards at the door and then they’re inside. Lorraine forgoes food or drinks and pulls Steve along into the stadium arena where a large mass of people have already gathered. He looks around as she pulls him up closer to the raised stage, as close as they can feasibly get, his free hand on his phone, keys, and wallet in his pocket, just in case. The crowd quickly grows, packs in tight enough that him and Lorraine end up a bit pressed together.

It’s not long after that that the main lights go down and the stage lights up near blinding. The crowd cheers and only gets louder when the band members start coming up on stage, each getting their own mishmash of excited, deafening screams. Dugan settles behind the drums, tapping out a few test beats while Morita grabs a guitar and Falsworth moves to the keyboard. Gabe grabs another guitar and Dernier darts around to double check all the equipment is properly hooked up.

And then Bucky comes out.

His hair’s down, layered to his shoulders, black eyeliner around his eyes, just enough to make them stand out more than they already do. His leather pants hug and grip every curve: his calves, knees, thighs, sitting so low on his hips Steve has to force his eyes up. His shirt is plain and black beneath the leather jacket, and his black, fingerless gloves stand out against his pale skin. He moves like a predator, prowling across the stage, Steve’s surprised to realize, hips nearly rolling and body almost swaying. Every part of him almost seems to move in response to something else, fluid and graceful in ways Steve can’t remember him ever being except when he was dancing, but it still wasn’t like this. He’s grown into his body, become accustomed to the bulk Steve never saw him with before and all the strong muscles beneath his skin.

He walks up to the microphone like it’s an old friend, takes hold of it like a long familiar sword he’s battled countless with. “ _Hello, everyone_ ,” he purrs low and deep and seductive into it, voice echoing throughout the arena. Steve shudders a little, involuntarily. “ _Thank you for coming tonight_.”

The crowd cheers and Steve looks around.

“ _We haven’t gotten to play in New York yet, even though we’re from here_ ,” Bucky pauses, smiling slow, and leans closer to the mic, voice going lower and deeper, “ _ **And we missed you**_.”

The crowd _screams_ and Steve jolts, almost has to cover his ears, but then he would’ve missed Bucky’s low, rumbling laugh.

“ _But we’re here now, and we’d like to play some music for you. You wanna hear it?_ ”

The crowd screams even louder and Steve winces.

Bucky laughs again. “ _We knew we loved you. Guys?_ ” he asks, looking back to the others.

Dugan beats his drumsticks together high above his head and then they start playing while Lorraine hollers excitedly at Steve’s side, tugging at his arm and bouncing in her heels, but all Steve can do is stare up at them.

These were his friends, the six dorks he used to listen to in Dugan’s garage while he sketched them all playing or did his homework. The same dorks who’d exaggeratedly screamed up versions of the early 90’s greatest hits. Those dorks are performing on stage to a sold out crowd in the middle of New York City.

The backs of Steve’s eyes sting and his throat goes tight, but he can feel himself smiling.

Those dorks _made it_.

Steve spends the first two songs just watching, but ends up jumping and tapping his foot and dancing in place like everyone else to the rest, even though he can’t sing along. He doesn’t know the lyrics and has a hard time understanding about half of them, but he enjoys the music, finds it making his heart beat faster and his body move, sharing grins with Lorraine surrounded by Dugan’s drums, Monty’s keyboard, Gabe and Morita’s guitars, and Bucky’s breathtaking voice.

A few people crowd surf over their heads at some point, and there seems to be a more controlled, violent section of dancing closer to the front, but the rest of the time Steve can just focus on the music (and keep a hand in his pocket on his possessions), lanyard bouncing against his chest.

He’s sweaty and exhausted by the time it starts to end, the band wrapping up their last song. After, Bucky speaks again, sounding a little out of breath but excited, grinning.

“ _Thank you for coming, guys! We should be sticking around for a bit, so hopefully we’ll see you again soon!_ ”

The crowd screams and the band start exiting the stage, throwing guitar pics and a couple of drumsticks out at the crowd with smiles and grins on their way. The crowd slowly starts to filter out after, and Steve turns to do the same, but Lorraine tugs his arm a different direction, weaving and navigating the crowd as quickly and efficiently as she does the lunch rush at the office.

“Lorraine, what-” Steve tries, half out of breath. She keeps going, only glancing back at him with a grin once they reach a hall where people in ‘ _STAFF_ ’ shirts are putting equipment away.

“ _VIP passes, Steve_ ,” she reiterates, and Steve’s brow furrows. She just smiles, stopping to flash their passes at a couple of bouncers guarding a double doored exit. They let them through and Steve immediately spots a large, black RV bus, finally starting to put two and two together.

“ _Oh no,_ ” he breathes.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Lorraine replies, and before Steve can properly protest, mind whirling a thousand miles a minute, she’s brought them up to the bus door and is knocking on the glass window. The door opens after a moment and Gabe leans out, eyes darting between the two of them as he says, “More VIPs-...” trailing off as his eyes settle on Steve. They slowly go wide and he glances back inside the bus at a holler of his name.

Steve gets the distinct feeling they’re both sharing the experience of being a deer caught in headlights, except Steve’s the one about to get hit by the large truck.

“There’s more?” comes Dugan’s voice, followed by his face and body, and then his eyes land on Steve’s face. He stares for a solid five seconds, then, “Holy _shit_.” He runs back up the stairs inside and Gabe whips around to follow and-

 _NOW IT’S TIME TO GO_ , Steve’s brain shouts.

He starts pulling himself back towards the exit doors while Lorraine tries to pull him back towards the bus with questions Steve can’t quite understand because his mind is now going _three_ thousand miles per minute instead of one, but then he hears steady, heavy boots come down the stairs behind him and jerks to a sharp stop just as they do, hair standing on end.

And then he realizes how quiet it is, and that he’s not breathing.

Steve takes in a slow, shaky breath even though his lungs burn for more and his heart is jack hammering in his chest.

 _Thank God I don’t have asthma anymore_ , he thinks deliriously.

 _Silence_.

“Miss, you wanna come inside?” comes Bucky’s low, seductive voice.

“Um…” Lorraine’s voice. “Yeah. Hold on just a sec. Steve?” her voice comes closer, then she steps into Steve’s field of vision, “You alright?”

Steve stares down at her, taking a couple seconds too long to process the question. He makes himself nod, slow and a little jerky. She looks concerned, so he makes himself take another burning breath and nod again, smoother this time.

Lorraine frowns, but nods back, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Okay,” she says quietly, “If you’re sure?” He nods again and she slowly lets go of his hand where he hadn’t noticed she’d gripped it, and moves back out of his field of vision. He’s acutely aware of the sound of her heels on the pavement, then on the metal steps of the bus, fading further up until they go silent.

Bucky’s still haven’t moved.

There’s a quiet shift of rubber on cement.

“We’ll call her a cab,” Bucky eventually says, then his steps recede on the stairs, followed by the sound of the bus door closing.

Steve stands there, frozen, not sure what to do or think, and then finally, for the second time ever in his life, he _runs away_.

Gabe watches Steve ( _huge_ Steve, damn) sprint past the bus like his life depends on it (and damn, he’s gotten fast, too), then looks over at where Bucky’s sitting on the couch, smiling and talking low with the blonde girl Steve was with (with blue eyes. Another one), not a feather ruffled or out of place in his countenance or body language.

He’s always flawless before the crash.

\--

It takes Steve three tries to get his key in the lock. He numbly gets the door open, locks it behind him, puts his key on the hook, kicks his shoes off, and walks through the quiet dark of the apartment. He drops his coat on his bedroom floor, showers mechanically, changes, then crawls into bed.

He stares up at the ceiling.

That was the first time Bucky spoke to him in ten years.

\--------------------------------------------------

His phone shrieks and he jerks awake, rolling over and slapping his hand on the nightstand, groaning when he doesn’t find it and dragging himself over to the edge of the bed. He sees a dark blur two feet away and tries to reach, partly sliding off the bed in his desperate attempt to get that damn thing _off_. He finally feels the shape of it in his jeans pockets and yanks it out with a grunt. It takes him two tries but he finally manages to hit the green button with another grunt, then around where the speaker button should be.

“ _James_ ,” comes Natasha’s voice, and he groans quietly, grabbing his phone and attempting to reverse slither back up into the bed. He struggles for a minute, but finally manages it, heaving a loud sigh once he’s back on a horizontal surface. “ _Bad time? If you’re jerking off, I can give you thirty seconds_.”

He huffs a breath. “No,” he croaks, “Whaddya want.”

“ _Just checking in_.”

He _groans_ again, rolling over and pulling a pillow over his head.

“ _You don’t usually sound this grumpy at noon_ ,” she teases, then her voice goes serious, “ _Something happen?_ ”

He rolls over and pulls the pillow off his face, staring up at the ceiling. “Steve.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Steve stares at his screen. He’s been trying to focus for the past-

He glances at his clock.

Shit. Three hours. But every time he goes to add onto the design-

 

_There’s a quiet shift of rubber on cement._

_“We’ll call her a cab,” Bucky eventually says, then his steps recede on the stairs, followed by the sound of the bus door closing._

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head a little, rubbing at the inner corners of his eyes.

He hasn’t seen Lorraine all morning.

He opens his eyes and looks back at his screen, frowning.

 _This is pathetic_ , he tells himself, but it sounds a lot like his father talking, which just makes him frown harder. A whistling tune catches his attention and he drags his eyes over to the main doorway. Lorraine comes walking in, a bounce in her step, and Steve follows her with his eyes all the way to her neighbouring desk in front of his own.

“Hi, Steve,” she greets, smiling. It wavers and disappears as she steps closer and puts a hand on his arm, lowering her voice. “Are you okay? Last night you seemed a little off, but the guys said security would help on your way out if you didn’t seem fine.”

 _The guys_.

Steve makes himself smile convincingly and nods, and Lorraine relaxes before drifting back into her happy bouncy state, sliding her hand from his arm. He doesn’t want to ask. He makes himself ask, because that’s what friends do, right? “Have a good time?”

“The _best_ ,” she replies, grinning, “The things that man can do with his mouth, and I don’t mean to a microphone.” She sighs dreamily, eyes on the ceiling. “I really owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. She smiles at him and he smiles back before she plops down like a bird into her seat and turns her computer on. Steve forces his eyes down to his own computer.

He’s not...jealous, or mad about Bucky sleeping with someone, that’d just be stupid. The thing that gets him is…

 _He knew Lorraine and I were friends_ , he thinks, _Or **something** , and he slept with her while leaving me outside like a bad dog_.

His fingers curl before he slowly makes himself relax, searching the barely done logo on his screen for an answer.

_I deserved that, didn’t I? After what I did. It’s been ten years, but not all of us move on the same, or move on at all. So I deserved that, right?_

He stares for another minute, but his screen doesn’t give him an answer.

Honestly, he never thought he’d see Bucky again.

 

“ _Steve. I’m leaving. Come away with me_ ,” _Bucky says, serious as anything._

_“What? Bucky, I- I can’t,” Steve sputters._

_“Steve, come on-” Bucky starts, tone getting annoyed._

_“I CAN’T!” Steve yells, fists clenched._

“ _Come on, Steve! We both know your dad’s a bag of shit!” Bucky shouts, “The way he beat on your mom and now especially you! Just- Just **come with me,** ” Bucky pleads, breaking Steve’s heart with the raw want of it, “It can be so much better. **I can make it so much better.** You don’t have to do this anymore!_ ”

“ _And you’ll, what? Support us with your **music?** ” Steve laughs, and it comes out crueller than he intended, but now the ball is rolling down hill and dragging him underneath it by the shackle around his ankle and he can’t stop. God help him, he can’t stop, even though Bucky’s eyes are wide and he looks like Steve slapped him in the face. **God, please, make him stop.** “You can barely get a gig at the local dive bar. We can’t live on pretzels and spare change.”_

_Bucky straightens. “That what you think of me?”_

_Steve bites his lip._

_Bucky shakes his head firmly. “That’s not you talking. That’s your dad.”_

_Steve straightens up. “You don’t know anything.”_

_“Quit acting like you’re fucking **eight** , Steve,” Bucky bites out, his own fists clenched, “You don’t have to follow your dad around like a lost puppy, and you don’t have to listen to his toxic opinions. You have your own! You’re not a kid anymore!”_

_“You’re right! I’m not!” Steve shouts back, “I have to support us **both!** I can’t just run off and leave to chase a **fantasy!** ”_

_Bucky flinches a little and Steve can’t help cringing. Bucky lowers his head, voice soft. “Steve...please. Stop talking like him. You’re better than him. You’re better than everyone,” he says, raising his head to look him in the eyes, “You always had faith in me, just like your mom.” He cringes like he just realized his mistake, and whatever softening Steve felt in his heart reverses in record time and hardens to the **core.**_

_“Yeah. Well she’s dead now, and so is everything- so is **everything.** **I can’t do this anymore.** ” He pulls at the chain around his neck and Bucky’s eyes go frantic._

_“ **Steve- !** ”_

_Steve tears it off and throws at him, regrets it as soon as he does it, but he can’t- he can’t take it back now. His eyes well up and he makes himself bite out the rest. “Just go. Go away, and don’t ever come back.” He turns around and makes himself leave, even though he flinches at the sound of Bucky’s knees hitting the ground, and then the loud sounds of his sobs and the screams of his name. They fade the further away he gets. His heart hurts so bad he wishes he could’ve clawed it out and thrown that at Bucky too, since that’s basically what he did._

_But that’ll fade, too, just like Bucky’s sounds, just like memories of his mom, just like his foolish dreams of happy ever after. If he’s lucky, maybe the memories of Bucky will fade too._

_Steve’s face scrunches up and he covers it with his hands as he comes to a stop next to an old building, blindly stumbling around the corner and putting his back to the wall, sliding down to sit on the dirty cement. He sobs, cheeks already wet, but the tears will fade, and so will his own sounds, and so will the frantic, painful beating in his chest._

 

Steve blinks at the number on his apartment door, didn’t realize he’d finished his work day already and gone home. He reaches up and puts his key in the lock, but doesn’t turn it, just stares at where the two pieces of metal meet.

Lock. Key. Two pieces of metal in completely different shapes, but they come together and make something recognizable, they _work_ together. But locks can be changed, and keys can be replaced. It’s nothing special, none of it is.

He turns the key and pushes his way inside, locking the door behind him and hanging his key on the hook.

“Hey,” Sam says, leaning out of the kitchen with a smile. It falters a little and Steve toes off his shoes. “You alright? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Keys can be replaced. Steve’s already replaced Bucky twice now. It’s fine if Bucky’s replaced him, too. It’s even fine if Bucky wants to hurt him. It’ll fade, it always does. Everything does.

Steve smiles and heads to his room. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a run in with someone last night.”

“ _The Ex?_ ” Sam calls, capitals in the words and all.

“The same,” Steve calls back, ignoring the small twinge in his chest.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Sam calls from the kitchen, “ _Need to talk?_ ”

“I’m okay,” Steve calls back, setting his bag by his desk and heading back out to help Sam with dinner.

 _I’m okay_ , he thinks.

He has to be. He always has to be, when it matters. He can’t afford to run off and chase his dreams, like Bucky could.

\--------------------------------------------------

“You alright?” is the first thing Natasha asks him when he walks into the room.

“Yeah,” he replies, even though it feels a little dry in his mouth. He goes over and grabs a bottle of water out of the mini fridge. He waves at the guys from the sound control room and they wave or salute back through the glass, earphones around their necks or on their ears while they tune up.

She raises her eyebrows and Bucky gets the water open, chugging half of it down.

“ _Clearly_ ,” she says, dry and flat as a desert.

He caps the bottle and sighs. “I’m fine, Nat. It was just a surprise, that’s all.” He should’ve been expecting it, running into Steve. He was expecting it a little since Steve was so adamant about _staying_ , he just wasn’t expecting Steve to show up outside the _tour bus_ , and looking- damn tall as hell. What’s that about? He used to be five foot nothing when they were _eighteen_. _What the hell_ -

“ _Barnes_ ,” Natasha snaps, snapping her fingers in his face. He jumps, gripping the water bottle tighter. She studies him for a long minute, long enough to make anyone _not_ used to it uncomfortable, then narrows her eyes a fraction. “You good to record?”

“Yeah. I’m good,” he answers, heading for the door and pulling it open, “I’m good.”

\--

He can focus when he’s singing, he can focus with the sort of attention he gives sniping during paintball wars, so they get through recording and Nat even gives them two thumbs up. But once they’re wrapped up for the day and he gets to his new apartment, his body trembles.

So, okay, maybe he was wrong, he’s _not_ good.

He walks over to his fancy, new smelling, black leather couch and drops onto it, propping his elbow on his knee and putting his face in his hand. He gets a flash of Steve’s back in a leather jacket and thinks of the one he used to put on Steve’s shoulders when he was cold, and he was always cold. His hips are still slim, almost as slim as they were before, but his legs are longer, and his shoulders a lot broader, and his hair looked shorter. He looked-

He looked like he wouldn’t get bruised by his father anymore, was Bucky’s first, stupid thought, followed by: _he looks like he really **doesn’t** need anyone anymore_.

He huffs, leaning back into the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

 _He wouldn’t look at me_.

He glares up at the ceiling.

 _Probably still thinks I’m dirt at the bottom of his shoe_.

It sparks that old anger in his chest, anger he’s learned to live with, because it helps fuel his songs. ‘ _Write what you know_ ’, they say. Well, ten years of ruminating over a year of the worst he’s ever felt seems to have been doing well for him so far. Maybe he should stoke it, get some new material, add some fuel to the fire. Maybe he can use it.

\--

Google is an amazing thing. And Bucky’s proud to admit, he never googled Steven Grant Rogers once, not once. Until now.

His eyebrows rise a little when he finds a- website, apparently Steven Grant Rogers’ website. He clicks the about button but there’s no picture, so he switches to the work examples.

They’re all logos, for the most part, but he does find a section for ‘sketches’ and- yeah, those are Steve’s. His style may have gotten a little more refined over the years, but Bucky would recognize it anywhere.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and forces that thought away. He opens his eyes again.

He finds a resume.

Steve is currently employed at Stark-

“Stark _fucking_ Industries?” he reads aloud, staring, “Well, damn.” He might be pissed at the guy, but he’s kind of impressed, too, working at the biggest, most ridiculously expensive company in all of New York. Hell, in a lot of parts of the world, from what he’s heard and read. He’s loathe to think it, but, grudgingly:

 _You did good_.

\--------------------------------------------------

Steve blinks when he steps out of the building for lunch, staring. “Gabe?”

Gabe gets up from a bench between two thin trees, giving a short nod. “Rogers.”

Steve frowns, looking around, then settles his eyes back on Gabe- Or Jones. “What are you doing here?”

“You got time?” Jones asks instead.

Steve gives his own short nod. “Hour lunch.”

Jones nods and jerks his head to the side and starts walking. Steve follows, but watches him closely. If the others prepared some sort of ambush to jump and beat him up, Steve would at least like time enough to set his bag out of the way. Even with his salary, good laptops are expensive.

The walk is quiet. Jones stops at a food truck and they both order, stand silently while they wait, then collect their food. Jones leads them over to a free table and they sit on opposite sides. It reminds Steve a little of his time in the war.

Jones finally looks at him. “You got taller.”

“I did,” Steve agrees, slowly unwrapping his sub, “You guys sound less like a screeching cat.”

Jones doesn’t smile, but his lips twitch, just a little. “You gonna be civil?”

“Are you?” Steve counters, watching him.

They stare each other down before Jones’ shoulders finally relax, and he gets his sandwich open. “I’m gonna be civil. Can’t say the same about Dugan or Barnes, though.” He looks back up at that and Steve doesn’t react.

“Sounds right,” Steve replies neutrally, “Why are you here?” He takes a bite of his sub.

“Testing the waters,” Jones answers, taking a bite of his own. They both chew and swallow. “It took us a long time and the help of a dangerous woman to get him scraped up off the floor after the mess you made of him,” Jones says, calm, careful, not a barb, just the truth.

It still lances Steve’s heart all the same.

He drops his eyes to his sandwich, taking another bite.

Jones looks back down to his own. “Bucky’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. But he’s always been vulnerable around you. I don’t think that’s changed.”

Steve looks up at that, frowning, but he doesn’t ask.

Jones smiles at him, not nicely, not meanly, but not exactly good. Some cross between sad and maybe bitter. “Once you get past that hard armor...” he trails off, shrugs a little.

Steve swallows his bite.

“You comin’ to another of our shows?” Jones asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Steve shakes his head. “No. I didn’t know the passes Lorraine had were backstage. I never would’ve went.”

Jones looks just a little sad at that, just a little. “You really go big or go home, don’t you.”

Steve shrugs, looking back down at his sandwich as he takes a bite. It’s halfway gone. He’s going to have to slow down if he wants to keep his excuse to not talk around.

 _Or you could just man the fuck up_.

Now _that_ sounded like his father.

Steve clenches his jaw a little, then looks back up.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, until both their food is gone and there’s no more reason to sit around.

“I’ll tell the guys you said hi?” Jones asks.

Steve crumples up his wrapper and tosses it in the nearest trash, getting up. “You can tell the _guys_ I said nothing.”

Jones looks up at him from the table, eyes doing that slight sad thing again. “When did you get so mean?” he wonders, to himself or to Steve, Steve doesn’t know. It makes him pause though, dropping his eyes to the table to think.

He looks back up. “My lunch break’s over,” he says, turning to go.

“ _You know, the past has a way of catching up!_ ” Jones calls.

“The past can _fuck off!_ ” Steve calls back, heading back to work. Barely anyone bothers to look over at him.

He’s still tense when he gets back to his desk, but he takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, and gets to work.

\--

He doesn’t get any more visits for the rest of the week, thankfully, and slips back into his routine: work, home, talk with Sam over dinner, watch a movie whenever they both have the time, sleep, get up, work, rinse and repeat. Sam’s been talking about getting his own place sometime in the next year or so, which is fine. It’s probably time. Most people would think it’s weird, living in the same apartment as your ex and still getting along just as well, but it’s worked for them. If Steve hadn’t met him in a warzone, Sam saving his life like a literal angel sent down from heaven, it might not’ve. But, as it is, it does. Romantic relationship or not, they’re still best friends.

So when he comes into work the following Monday and gets an envelope from the mail courier going around the office, he’s a little confused, and a little apprehensive. An ass kicking can’t come in the mail, can it?

Steve eyes it like it’s an IED and slowly reaches over, grabbing his little shield letter opener and just as slowly, carefully working the envelop open like he’s disabling a bomb (he was never in the bomb squad, but that doesn’t matter). He squeezes the envelope open between his fingers and peers inside.

Then blinks, stares, stares some more. He tilts it to the side and the contents land on his desk.

Two VIP tickets to another Commandos show.

He frowns.

Okay...so...someone in the band is fucking with him. Probably. Most likely.

He glances up at the side of Lorraine’s face, then pauses and looks back down at the tickets.

No. They’re VIP, so if he gives them to her she’ll see Bucky, and if _Bucky_ sent them to be an asshole, he’ll ask about Steve not being there.

Steve slides them back into the envelope and slips it into his bag. He’ll set them on fire in the sink when he gets home.

\--

He drops them off in the trash on the first floor lobby on the way out the door, just in case Sam’s home and starts thinking something’s happening he should know about or Steve’s finally gone crazy.

\--

The date on the tickets comes and goes. Steve doesn’t hear much about it, just Lorraine saying it was a blast and that she bought a t-shirt.

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, then gets back to work.

\--

He gets another pair of tickets two weeks later, this time to a live show during the break of a late night talk show being recorded some time in the morning.

Steve frowns at them and then throws them away, but because he actually _liked_ the music, he stops at store on the way home and buys the CD.

He puts it on his shelf in his bedroom and never opens it.

\--

He comes back from lunch the next day to a giant vase of two dozen black roses with a giant, red ribbon wrapped around the black glass, no card, and almost all of his co-workers staring.

Steve grinds his teeth, sets his bag down, and then picks up the vase and carries it to the nearest lobby, dumping the whole thing in the trash.

If it’s Bucky, his sense of dark humor has gotten weird.

If it’s not...maybe Steve should be worried.

\--

“What do you know about stalkers?” Steve asks that evening.

Sam pauses in his stirring of the most delicious pasta sauce Steve has ever smelt in his life and frowns at him. “There something I should know?”

“No. You’re fine,” Steve replies, looking through Instagram.

“That’s good. But are _you?_ ” Sam counters.

Steve frowns a little and shrugs. “I’m always fine.” He can see Sam threateningly pointing the stirring spoon at him out of the corner of his eye. Steve makes himself look over and sighs. “Okay, okay. I know. It’s bad to say that all the time.”

“No, it’s bad for _you_ to say that when I can _tell_ you’re not fine,” Sam replies, sticking the spoon back in the pot to start stirring again. “This about The Ex?”

“Maybe,” Steve hedges, “I’m not sure. I got concert tickets sent to me twice and then a large vase of black roses. I don’t know who they’re from and I can only hope it _is_ The Ex, or else I might have a serious problem on my hands.” It’s easier to think of Bucky as ‘The Ex’ than ‘Bucky’, he realizes. Another point for Sam in the Awesome column. He’s ahead by a landslide.

Sam hums thoughtfully, frowning down into the pasta sauce. “Seem like something he’d do? I know it’s been a while, but sometimes a person can tell.”

“Not...really?” Steve questions, “But like you said, been a while.”

Sam hums again, reaching over to add a pinch of salt into the sauce. “If you notice anyone following you, or you get something disturbing like a toe or a pair of underwear, call the police.”

“That was so helpful. Thank you Sam,” Steve returns dryly.

“You’re welcome,” Sam says, taste testing the sauce then taking it off the burner, “Now get your butt in here and start making the garlic bread under my delightful supervision.”

“I only set the fire alarm off _twice_ ,” Steve complains, but sets his laptop aside and gets up off the couch.

“I love how you forget that part of the cupboard caught fire, too,” Sam says flatly, staring at him blankly.

Steve’s cheeks heat a little and he ducks his head, grumbling, “Said I was _sorry_.”

\--

There’s nothing for another week. Steve’s suspicious until the next week goes by without incident, _then_ he starts to relax. He hears about The Commandos releasing a new album and Lorraine and him listen to the sample track on a shared lunch break, and Steve frowns.

It sounds...angry, really angry, and...sad?

He looks away from the radio while Lorraine gushes poetic over the lyrics.

Steve closes his eyes and makes himself sit still until the sample is over, and then leaves the lunch room to get back to work, deciding to take a shorter lunch.

\--------------------------------------------------

“Liked the change in your lyrics,” Natasha says as she comes around and plops down on the other end of the couch.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off the pad of paper, still focused, writing.

The silence stretches.

He sighs and sits up, looking over. “You don’t like it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Not what I said.”

“You’re like a cat, what you say is the opposite of what you mean,” he replies.

She slowly raises her other eyebrow but her lips curl a bit. “I’m so glad I found you in a dive bar.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch. “It’s apparently where you collect all your strays.”

“Barton is still a work in progress,” she calmly states, looking out the high rise window, “We won’t hold it against him.”

The silence is more comfortable this time.

“Maybe you should just beat him up,” she says after a bit, eyes still on the window, “Or fuck him. Maybe both.”

He stares. She looks over.

“What? Works for Clint.”

“TMI, Nat,” he states flatly, focusing back on the notepad. He sees her shrug out of the corner of his eye.

He was right about her being a cat, though. He’s just glad he caught on sooner rather than later after she found him and the guys performing in a dive bar in Florida, doing anything and _everything_ to get noticed. That’s not where he expected it to happen, for her to show up under a light like a flaming angel from Hell, but then again, he’s learned not to have expectations where she’s concerned. She bows to no rules and no one. It’s a big part of why her career took off and why they got along so quickly (then fought so quickly, because when he was low, he looked for orders, and she refused to give them. It got him into trouble more than a couple times before he finally got his shit together).

“Still disappointed he didn’t show,” she mutters, “But not surprised. It’s hard to do this without meeting him.”

He looks over sharply at that. “ _No meetings_.”

She looks back, as blank as a statue, but he holds her stare until she looks back out the window. It’s not a defeat, or conceding, with her, just a change in approach.

“He left a big enough mark on you for you to get plastered on the anniversary of your breakup three years _after_ the fact, _and_ to keep writing about it until you shot to fame a year ago,” she says, looking back, “How can you expect me not to meddle when you’re finally both in the same city _and_ he showed up at your first concert back home.” Her lips curl up, sly and mischievous. “After all the things I’ve heard, James, I want to meet him.”

He frowns at her, abandoning his notepad temporarily. “Meddle to what end?” he asks. Her eyes sharpen at finally getting a hook in him. “He basically called me no better than dirt, dumped me, broke my heart so bad I tried drowning myself in alcohol and fighting my way to feeling nothing, then showed up at my first concert here ten years later with some woman.”

“Whom you slept with,” Natasha adds.

He shrugs, looking back down at the notepad, brows drawing together. Not his proudest moment, but Steve deserves to have _his_ heart broken, somehow. “It’s over,” he says, “It’s been over. It’s done.”

Her lips curl up again when he looks back over. “But he’s your _muse_.”

Bucky drops his eyes over to the notepad, gritting his teeth at the words there, because they _are_ all about Steve, every single one. Ten years and they’re finally getting somewhere, but this is the price. Not every single song is about Steve, but a lot of them are, most of their biggest hits are. The guys and Natasha know, but that’s it, unless Steve…

He shakes his head hard, angry all of a sudden, quick and vulnerable.

He doesn’t want to think about Steve listening to his music, even though Steve was at the concert. He doesn’t want to think about it.

He hasn’t even actually seen Steve’s face in ten years, just the back of his ridiculous shoulders and ass in those tight jeans.

He sighs, dropping his head back. Shit, maybe Natasha’s right, which she almost always is, maybe they _do_ need to fuck. Hate fucking’s a thing, right? Right. Unrealistic in this case, but it makes him feel slightly better and slightly weird to know it _is_ an option, even though it’s not.

He rolls his head to the side to find her smiling like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. He narrows his eyes and her smiles widens, which is about when Dugan comes bumbling into the room, stopping cold when he sees the smile on Natasha’s face.

“Should I back out slowly, or…?” he trails off, not moving a hair.

Bucky sighs and groans and lays down on the couch, covering his face with the notepad.

Dugan looks between them, confused and uncertain and not wanting to risk a damn thing. He knows how scary Natalia Romanova is after having worked with her the past couple years. He _likes_ being alive to send his ex-wife her well deserved child support and then some.

“We were discussing Bucky’s Problem,” she answers, eyes still on Bucky even though he’s hidden under paper and cardboard. Bucky groans again.

Dugan straightens. “The Steven Grant Rogers Problem?” he asks through gritted teeth.

Bucky rolls over and tries burying his face in expensive leather, sneezing a muffled squeak into it at the noseful of _new leather_ smell.

Natasha’s lips twitch in a genuine smile. “The same.”

“Want me to beat him up for you, boss?” Dugan asks.

Bucky sighs so loudly it echoes back into his face. “You’ve already asked me that seven times in the past- however the fuck long,” he replies, words partly muffled, “We’re not the _mob_.”

“Well, never hurts to ask again,” Dugan mutters. Natasha’s smiling eyes shift to him and he swallows. Okay, maybe it can in certain circumstances.

“No one’s beating up Steve Rogers but me, got it?” comes Bucky’s Threatening Voice, though the effect is lost a little into the expensive couch, and the fact that he’s face down on it with his hair going every which way.

Dugan sighs. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he returns dully. Bucky flips him off without looking.

“So does this mean you _will_ go beat him up?” Natasha asks a tiny bit gleefully, which is damn terrifying, thank you very much.

Bucky groans again, letting his arm drop to the side of the couch, fingers trailing the floor. “I don’t know yet. No. Maybe.”

“Good. It’s decided then,” Natasha says, getting up, which has Bucky jerking up, hands braced on the couch and eyes a little wild.

“What?”

“I’ll schedule a playdate,” Natasha says as she leaves, Bucky staring frantically after her.

“ _What?_ ” His wild eyes swivel up to Dugan, who raises his hands.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t do anything.”

Bucky makes a choking sound and then lays back down on the couch, face first.

\--------------------------------------------------

Steve frowns when the mail courier hands him another envelope, about to just toss it right into the trash before he sees there’s writing on this one. He frowns some more, turning it over to read it.

 

_‘Steven Rogers’_

 

His name in elegant, black script.

He grabs his little shield envelope opener and opens it, pulling out an- invitation?

 

_You are cordially invited to have your ass kicked, or to kick Barnes’ ass, tomorrow at 8pm sharp at the venue of The Commando’s homecoming concert. Come through the East Side Staff entrance, the door will be unlocked. Be there or be sq-ua-re. ;)_

_P.S. If you don’t show, I’ll know you weren’t worth the time. Ciao_ ~

 

Steve stares.

His mouth opens, closes, opens- closes again.

His face scrunches up.

_What?_

\--

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this_ , he thinks, staring at the _East Side Staff entrance door_.

He reaches out and tries the handle.

It clicks under his thumb and pushes open. He stares down the dark hall.

“This is such a bad idea,” he mutters, “I should’ve at least had Sam come with me.”

... _Well_ , it’s not really too late for that. Maybe.

Steve pulls his phone out and shoots off a _Help_ text with instructions and then switches his phone to silent and pockets it before stepping inside, making sure to close the door quietly behind him.

He can’t really tell where he’s going since it’s so damn dark, so he has to pull his phone out again and use the screen as a short range flashlight. It takes him a few minutes, but eventually he finds the hall that him and Lorraine took down to the bus, swallows as he looks down it, and heads in the opposite direction towards where the main arena was. From there, it’s easier to know where he’s going, and with some backtracking through his memory, he finds the doors to the main arena in little to no time. He pauses at one of them, looking through the window of wired glass, but he can’t see anyone in there, just moonlight coming through the open ceiling. He takes a breath, steels himself, and tries the door handle.

It opens.

He puts his phone away and pushes his way inside, closing this door just as quietly as the first one behind him. There’s almost a full moon up in the sky through the large opening in the ceiling and it’s light enough to see by. The arena is empty, eerily so in the dark and without the mass of writhing bodies and activity and music, but he remembers it, the cheering and screaming, the warm bodies bumping and pressing into him and Lorraine hanging onto his arm, the music, Bucky’s voice.

Steve shudders a little as he walks into the moonlight, looking up. There’s a soft scuffing sound from behind him and he whips around, stilling-

There’s Bucky.

He’s sitting at the center on the edge of the stage, one foot on it and the other dangling down above the floor. He’s in all black again, but jeans this time and no eyeliner. He’s a little hard to make out where he’s sitting in the shadows, but Steve can at least tell that much.

They stare at each other, not saying anything.

Bucky scoots forward off of the stage and lands on his booted feet.

Steve tenses, swallows.

This is supposed to be a fight, or something.

He darts his eyes around.

He wouldn’t be surprised if the others were lurking around. Steve was friends with all of them, but they knew Bucky the longest, first. He was their leader, in a way, Steve, too, but...Steve broke that, broke himself out of that, and it left a lot of sharp pieces behind, in all of them.

Movement draws his eyes back and he watches Bucky walk forward, prowling again, stopping once he’s out from under the shadows and in the moonlight too.

Unlike Bucky though, Steve can see his face clearly with the light shining on it, instead of behind him. He’s pale, like he hasn’t been getting enough sun, and his eyes are still breathtakingly beautiful, especially in the moonlight. All the black he’s wearing and his dark, layered bangs and hair framing his cheekbones and face just making his features stand out all the more, especially his eyes. It makes Steve’s heart give a hard kick before he smothers the feelings stirred and shoves them down. They don’t belong anywhere anymore, they’re from a broken thing, a broken time.

Bucky’s expression hardens and he brings his fists up, getting into a lower position. Steve pauses a moment before doing the same. Bucky’s dad taught them both how to box, but it never helped with Steve’s dad.

Bucky runs at him, and Steve braces himself for the first hit.

It starts out cold, testing, but the longer they swing and jab and dodge the messier it gets, the more rage filled Bucky’s expression becomes. Steve swallows down the emotions and gives as good as he gets, because as much as he apparently still _hates_ being the one to put that look on Bucky’s face, in his eyes, he’s still pissed off _too_.

Bucky lands a solid punch to his gut and Steve gags, throws one that Bucky blocks and throws another that gets him in the chest, and Bucky _growls_ , diving in and tackling Steve to the ground where they both land hard, knocking the breath out of Steve. Bucky wails on him and Steve blocks as much as he can, struggling and kicking and trying to punch while Bucky gets wild in his swings. And they hit, they _hurt_ , and make Steve want to hit back harder, so he _tries_.

He tastes blood in his mouth at some point, feels one of his eyes swelling shut, and he’s not sure what happens or when or why, but his anger seems to go out before Bucky’s, and he stops trying to block. Bucky keeps punching, teeth bared like an animal and punches hard as bricks. He keeps swinging, hitting, hitting, _hitting_ -

And then he stops, fist raised and expression enraged, _wild_ , and Steve’s stunned to feel it hit home that he doesn’t know this Bucky. Logically, he knows he wouldn’t. It’s been ten years, people change, _he’s_ changed, but- It hits him then, that he doesn’t know Bucky, and whatever he did know could be as dead and buried as it feels like the him _he_ was ten years ago is.

Bucky’s expression slowly shifts, the rage sliding into something else, something that makes Bucky’s eyes wide and almost afraid, scared, and then he shifts and falls sideways, landing on his back a couple feet away. They both breathe heavily in the silence, staring up at the stars and moon, a twisted parody of something they used to do on grass holding hands, back when they were young. It’s quiet, almost peaceful, except for that _thrum_ that hasn’t really seemed to have left either of them yet.

They catch their breath, and then it really is just quiet, neither looking at the other.

“I hate you,” Bucky says, a statement, a fact. It pierces through Steve, and he lets it, lets the pain soak his heart red and doesn’t do a damn thing to stop the bleeding. He deserves this. “I hate you,” Bucky near whispers, rage filled again and-...sad. ” _God_ , I hate you, so much I can barely stand it. I _loved_ you. _I_ -” Bucky cuts off, and the past tense is what hurts the most, besides that little choked sound Bucky makes in the back of his throat. Which is stupid, because it’s been years. Why in the hell would Bucky still love him? Why would Steve?

It’s quiet again.

Bucky pushes himself up to sit, leather jacket creaking quietly. “You’re not even going to say anything?” He doesn’t look at Steve, and it’s stupid, so stupidly stupid, but Steve looks up at him, can barely see his profile for the angle and his half fucked vision, but all he wants to do is brush Bucky’s hair back.

His fingers curl.

He has no right to do that anymore.

Steve pushes himself up to sit too, but doesn’t stop, staggers all the way to his feet and stands there for a few moments, feels eyes on him but doesn’t look down, even though his eyes drop to the floor and almost shift over before he stops himself. He saw Bucky tonight. It’s enough. It has to be.

“I _hate_ you,” Bucky growls, like he’s trying to get a reaction, maybe.

Steve sighs and makes himself start walking to the doors. He hears movement, a scuff, hears quick steps and isn’t surprised when a hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. Bucky’s right there, glaring at him, as on fire as the sun and just as bright, and it hurts to look at him. It’s always hurt to look at him. Steve had forgotten over the years, maybe, but it feels true.

He knows what Bucky wants from him, but he doesn’t have it to give. If he ever did, it was once, a long, long time ago.

“Everything fades,” Steve says, quiet and calm. Bucky blinks, a little taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting that at all. Maybe he wasn’t. He wants anger from Steve, but Steve is burned out, has been burned out for while now, he’s slowly realizing.

Steve turns around and starts walking again, blinking a little when that hand pulls him back around again. Bucky’s there again, and damn it, but it _hurts_. His heart is just one big, never ending, dull _ache_ , like a damn bruise that never really healed.

“ _Everything fades_ ,” Steve repeats, stepping out from under Bucky’s hand, “Even me.”

Bucky blinks, eyes a little wide as he stares at him, somewhere between shock and rage again, and Steve turns around and keeps walking so he doesn’t have to see it. He can already feel Bucky’s disappointment trying to burrow under his skin, past the fog that’s settled there, and he doesn’t have the strength for it anymore.

He doesn’t bother to close the doors quietly this time, just lets them bang closed behind him to announce his departure, once, twice. Sam’s waiting for him outside when Steve gets there, takes one look at him, frowns so heavily that Steve knows he should be worried, but can’t find the emotion, and carefully guides him the ten feet to his car, into the passenger seat, before Sam rounds the car and slips into the driver’s side.

They go. Steve looks up in the rearview mirror, but he never sees Bucky come out of the stadium.

He falls asleep with his head against the cold glass window on the way home.

\--------------------------------------------------

Bucky stares up at the ceiling.

Steve stares up at the ceiling.

 

_Was that how it was supposed to go?_

 

Bucky frowns, rolling up out of bed.

Steve closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

\--------------------------------------------------

“What’s got you down, boss?” Dugan asks.

Bucky grunts quietly, staring out the window down at the city. It’s weird, not having to look up at it.

Dugan takes a seat on the other end of the long windowsill and Bucky pulls his knee in a bit higher even though there’s plenty of room. They’re in a skyscraper, for Christ’s sake.

“Geeze. What happened to your face? You look like you got in a bar brawl,” Dugan comments.

Bucky trails his fingertips over the notepad at his side, frowning down at the half finished lyrics. “Saw Steve,” he half mumbles, looking back down out the window.

Dugan tenses where he’s sitting, then huffs out a bitter laugh. “He look worse than you do?”

Bucky’s brows draw together a little more. “Yeah.”

They sit in quiet for a minute.

“You don’t sound happy about it,” Dugan says.

Bucky frowns more, leaning his head back against the wall. “It felt good,” he says quietly, “To hit him, to be hit by him. It was cathartic.” He pauses.

“But…?” Dugan eventually asks when he doesn’t continue.

Bucky rolls his head a little to the side, staring unseeingly down at the city. “ _But_ then he stopped.” He can feel Dugan frown.

“Okay…?”

Bucky rolls his head forward a bit, dragging his eyes to Dugan, focusing. “When have you ever known Steve Rogers to throw a fight?”

Dugan blinks, looks up in thought, rolling his shoulders out. “Never,” he answers, looking back, then gives a wry smile, “But it was _you_ beating the shit out of him.”

Bucky frowns at that, looking back out the window. “It wasn’t that. I don’t think,” he adds after a second, “He just...gave up and took it, rolled over. I’ve never seen his eyes so lifeless, not even when his- when Sarah passed.”

Dugan sits back against his side of the windowsill, hands on his thighs. “You care?” he asks.

Bucky’s brows tangle up. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t, right? Doesn’t make sense that I would,” he answers, biting the corner of his lower lip, “It just…” He shrugs, sighs quietly. “Feels...wrong, like something’s not the way it should be, y’know?”

It’s quiet again.

“It _is_ hard to picture him throwing in the towel,” Dugan says after a minute.

Bucky nods, staring out the window. He shifts his eyes up to his reflection and sees his own confusion, anger, but mostly confusion. He _shouldn’t_ care, it’s stupid to. He’s grown up, changed. He’s almost thirty, for fuck’s sake, so is Steve. They haven’t seen each other in a decade, not a word. Bucky hasn’t even really been back in New York except to see his ma on holidays. Too many memories in the neighborhood next over.

Still. A Steve Rogers who gave as good as he got for all of two minutes before letting himself fold like a cheap poker table?

He grabs his notepad and turns, pushing himself up off the windowsill. “ _Damn it_ ,” he sighs.

\--

He stares up at the Stark Industries building, glaring up over his sunglasses at it like it’s personally offended him, because it _has_. Maybe. A little bit.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters, taking a deep breath and then marching forward like he’s going to battle. He kind of is. Again. _Damn it_. He freezes at the door, hand an inch from the door handle, staring at it like it’s a grenade. Then gets bumped out of the way when a swell of people come out, stumbling off to the side by one of the large metal pillars under the high roof.

He stares, grunts, then turns around and walks over to a nearby bench, taking a seat and pulling his phone out.

“Fuckin’ dumbass,” he mutters to himself, googling _Stark Industries_ and dialing the official phone number like a _smart_ person. He brings the phone to his ear, glaring up at the building while the dial tone rings.

“ _Thank you for calling Stark Industries. How may I help you?_ ” a woman speaks on the other end.

“Hi,” he says, forcing a smile so she can hear it. No need to be rude to people just doing their job. “I’m trying to get the office phone number of an employee? He’s an old friend of mine. Steve Rogers?”

“ _Please hold_ ,” the woman says. There’s a click and, thank _God_ , no hold music. After a minute, there’s another click, and then the dial tone’s ringing again. Bucky swallows, trying to keep his heart rate down and his breathing even.

It rings, rings, rings, rings-

“ _I’m sorry, but no one is available to talk your call. Please leave a message after the tone_.”

 _Beep_.

Bucky pulls in a breath, opening his mouth-

Closes it. Opens it again-

Closes it and pulls his phone away, hanging up.

“ _Damn it_ ,” he curses quietly, glaring at his phone, then up at the building. He shoves himself to his feet and takes two steps towards the door before veering right and heading down the sidewalk.

 _That’s okay, I’ll just try again later_ , he thinks, nodding a little to himself.

\--

He tries again in the afternoon, but gets the automated voice again.

He tries again the next day, but gets the automated voice.

He tries again _that_ afternoon, same thing.

Same thing the _next_ day.

 _And the next_ -

“Damn it. _What the hell?_ ” he demands at his phone, staring at the white dial screen, “They don’t have _caller ID_ on their _office phones, do they?_ ” The screen goes black. “Little shit,” he grumbles at it, shoving it into his jeans pocket.

He pulls his shirt up and off and decides to take a shower, calling it quits for the evening. He shoves his pants down and off and heads into the bathroom, pausing as he passes the large mirror. He frowns down at his chest, reaching up and fingering the metal hanging from his neck. His touch softens, and he sighs quietly.

“Damn it,” he says, soft and low.

\--

“I’m so fuckin’ fucked,” he grumbles quietly, staring up at the apartment complex, “This is the fuckin’ stupidest idea I’ve ever had.”

“Yet, here we are,” Barton says from his left, staring up with him. “Looks like a nice place, at least. That’s something, right? Maybe the kind that has free coffee in the lobby?”

Bucky slants his eyes over and then rolls them when Barton just smiles like an eager puppy. “Anyone ever tell you you look like your dog?” he asks, making himself walk forward and pull the fancy glass door open.

“Hey, I take that as a _compliment_ ,” Barton replies, “Lucky is _amazing_. Even Tasha likes him.”

“That’s a miracle,” Bucky concedes, then proceeds to lose Barton because the lobby does, in fact, have free coffee. And _cookies_. What kind of nonsense-

He walks over and grabs one, taking a small nibble.

...He shoves half of it in his mouth and grabs another one before walking over to the assortment of post boxes.

He feels the eyes of people as they come and go and ignores them. _Yes_ , he’s aware he looks like an emo biker and that he stands out in the pristine white lobby like Ghost Rider in the middle of a kid’s bright pink, Barbie themed birthday party. _Move along_. Mostly he’s just amazed that this is where Steve _lives_. He’s done well for himself. Bucky just bitterly hopes that Joseph Rogers is content enough to stay cooped up in his own damn house and rot away like the damn hermit leech he is.

He finally finds ‘ _Rogers, S_ ’ on a post box and pauses in pulling away when he sees the ‘ _Wilson, S_ ’ next to it has the same apartment number above it, brow wrinkling.

Okay. Room mate, girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, _wife?_ Whatever. It’s fine. He’s not here to stir up that shit anyway.

He whistles over at Barton and points up and Barton nods, still chewing, and waves him on with his half eaten cookie, a styrofoam cup of coffee in the other hand. Bucky rolls his eyes but heads over to the elevator, doing the general math in his head and hitting the twelfth floor. He stares at the numbers as the elevator goes up, trying to keep his breathing steady. It slows to a stop, dings, the doors slide open, and he pokes his head out.

The nearest number says 110, so he steps back inside and hits the twentieth floor, not sure how to feel about it.

 

_Bucky cracks his eyes open and squints at the alarm clock on his nightstand, sighing and rolling up out of bed. He walks out into the cramped living room to find Steve’s back to him, still sitting on the stool and facing the easel next to his tiny window, painting his- shit, - he counts the canvases - **seventh?** \- picture._

_Bucky walks up behind him and slowly wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, careful of his moving right arm. Steve leans back a little into his bare chest and Bucky noses at his hair before resting his chin on top of his head. Steve elbows him gently in the ribs and Bucky huffs. “You’ve been at this for hours. Come to bed,” he says, quiet and croaky because he **did** manage to at least sleep a few hours._

_“I’m almost done, Buck,” Steve replies, quiet and distracted._

_Bucky tightens his arms around him a little and Steve sighs, so quiet he almost doesn’t even hear it._

_He stands there while Steve paints, alternating between watching and letting his eyes drift closed, just listening to the sounds of Steve’s paint brush moving over the rough canvas._

_Steve’s been doing this since- since Sarah died two months ago, trying to make up the difference with more commission work for the local shops and whatever he can scrounge up online with the free wifi down at the local club Bucky plays and bartends at. Bucky always smiles when he finds Steve watching him sing, but lately he’s had his nose in the white glow of his laptop more often than not, even when Bucky’s on stage. To say he misses Steve’s attention is an understatement. He likes it when everyone watches him, but he likes it best when Steve does._

_Bucky eventually hears the telltale signs of Steve finishing up, his brush left longer in the water, the brief, chaotic slosh of him swishing it around, then drying it on the nearby, forever paint stained towel. It’s so covered it’s not even white anymore. As soon as he’s done, Bucky quickly shifts his arms and scoops him up, ignoring Steve’s halfhearted, tired, “ **Buck** ,” complaints._

_“Come on, my little workaholic,” Bucky teases gently. Steve opens his mouth, tiredly glaring up at him, but it’s more like a tired cat putting up a front than being truly angry, so Bucky dips down and kisses him before Steve can get himself riled up. Steve goes loose in his arms and winds his arms around the back of Bucky’s shoulders, pulling himself close._

_“Okay,” Steve whispers when they pull apart, then kisses him again. Bucky knows he’s really worn down when he only puts up a token protest to Bucky tucking him in. Bucky curls around him, pulling him close, and stares at the fine nobs of Steve’s spine in the dark. They’re more prominent than usual. Steve’s working too hard. But Bucky can’t tell him that in that way, or Steve’ll just flare up like a porcupine and push himself even harder._

_“What am I gonna do about you?” he whispers, soft and fond, Steve’s answering snores his only reply. He closes his eyes and presses a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck, then tries to follow him into sleep. It’s a problem to worry about tomorrow, after they both get some rest._

 

Except Steve kept pushing, to the point that Bucky thought he was going to collapse, and then a month after that night, Steve destroyed most of his world and broke his heart, and the only thing he had to console himself was booze, the guys, and his music. Was it his fault? Did he push Steve too hard to- _stop?_ To take care of his damn self and stop worrying so much about his alcoholic asshole of a father. The VA sent him checks, he had enough to get by, but damn Steve Rogers had to take that burden from his mother, too, her big, soft heart and the bad habit of caring for people who didn’t care for him.

Steve had yelled at him more than once for trying to get in the middle of things, to the point that they wouldn’t talk for a few days after, mostly because Steve refused to see _him_. Bucky tried to understand it, and in a way he did. Joseph was his father, and Sarah had loved him, and she had loved Steve so much Bucky felt like he was the only one who could understand the depth, because even with his father beating on them and the curses and shunning and slurs, Steve was _good_. He was fire, and light, and so many of the things in Bucky’s songs. He was awe inspiring.

But last week, when they fought...

He stares down the hall, elevator doors open, and makes himself step out, looking over at the nearest number.

201

He keeps walking, glancing at the numbers over his sunglasses as he goes. He comes to a stop at the end of the hall, 210, and pushes his glasses up to the top of his head, forcing his bangs back. He feels exposed.

He raises his fist and knocks on the door. It takes a few moments, but then he hears movement and the door being unlocked, then it’s opening and a man stands there, someone he doesn’t know. The man stares at him, shrewd, dark eyes scanning over his face. Bucky holds still.

“Ah,” The man says, cocking an eyebrow, “ _The Ex_.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up a little. “And the...Not...Ex?” he asks.

The man huffs a breath, leaning against the doorframe. “The ex,” he corrects, and Bucky’s not sure how to feel about that. It’s not relief, but it’s not _not_ relief. It’s confusing, and unwanted, so he shoves it aside. “Why are you here?”

Bucky frowns. “Because Steve is…” he trails off, still not really sure _how_ to word it, “Off.” The man raises his eyebrow again, waiting, and Bucky huffs a sigh. “Look, I know Steve and I don’t get along and haven’t seen each other in years, but even with that, he was never...he…” His fingers curl and he growls quietly, frustrated. “He’s not supposed to be like he _was_ when I last saw him. I couldn’t get a hold of him at his job so I tried coming here, which is stupid and doesn’t make any sense, but-”

The main holds up a hand and Bucky cuts off, breathing a little hard. He swallows.

“You’re not wrong,” the man slowly allows, and Bucky’s shoulders slump a fraction, “But what are _you_ going to do about it, is what I want to know.”

Bucky’s shoulders slump further and he reaches up, tries to run a hand through his hair and nearly sends his sunglasses to the floor, fumbling to catch them and put them back on his head, cheeks a little warm. He clears his throat quietly when the man just raises that eyebrow again. God, he feels like he’s talking to Steve’s mom or something about dating him all over again, except this guy is _not_ like Sarah, and is not Sarah. He’s an ex, like Bucky, except obviously better or something because he seems to be _living_ _with_ Steve, but- He’s just another guy, worried about Steve.

That makes it easier to think, and Bucky squares his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, and the guy stares, “I just know something’s wrong. Steve shouldn’t have acted like he did. And I can’t just- let him keep doing whatever it is. We may not be together anymore, and I know it’s been ten years, but Steve was- is, _good_ , at his core. The kind that doesn’t change over the years unless something’s _really_ wrong, and it _feels_ wrong not to try and do something.”

The man’s other eyebrow has slowly gone up throughout his whole little speech, and Bucky watches him both warily and challengingly. The man’s lips curve up a little, then he opens the door wider and steps aside. “Take your shoes off inside the door.”

Bucky takes a breath, stepping in and doing as he’s told. “Thank you.”

The man shuts the door, then offers his hand out. “Sam Wilson, the ex.”

Bucky’s lips curl, just a smidge, and he shakes Sam’s hand. “Bucky Barnes, _The Ex_.”

Sam huffs a small laugh then nods his head across a wide expanse of a lot of damn, clean space, and Bucky follows. The kitchen’s just to the right past the short half-hall connected to the door, the left a huge open space that seems to encompass the living room and dining room all in one, a decent sized flat screen tv on a sleek, dark wood stand with a few tall shelves full of movies. A soft looking, navy blue, ‘L’ shaped couch is angled at the tv like an extended ‘v’, and there’s a few paintings hanging on the wall, all of which he recognizes the styles of. His eyes linger on those as they walk, looking over the soft colors, the harsh colors, flashes of parts of Steve’s life he doesn’t know.

He drags his eyes away to find a wall of windows makes up the right side of the apartment, cutting off at wall that ends just ahead of them to an open entryway. Sam leads him past it and there’s a long hall that goes right to the windows, one at the end after a door. There’s another door straight ahead that Sam gently nudges open, and Bucky glances to the left to find another door at that end before Sam’s voice drags him back to the one in front of him.

“Hey, Steve? You got company,” Sam says, soft and low. There’s no reply, and Sam leans back with his lips pressed together and his eyes a little narrow. He looks over and whispers, “I can’t tell if he’s asleep or not. Guy’s like a damn possum.”

Bucky huffs and jerks his chin ahead, raising an eyebrow in question.

Sam shrugs, stepping back. “Good luck. Scream if he starts throwing his heavy, pointy art books at you,” Sam says quietly, turning and heading back into the- almost everything room. Seriously, Steve did well for himself, just like Bucky knew he would.

He turns his head back forward and steps into the doorway, looking inside.

Steve’s room is big, about as big as the shitty little apartment he had for himself back when they were still together, except it’s nice, and lived in. The walls are a soft blue, there’s a wall of windows straight ahead that make up the back. He spots an easel in the far right corner by what’s probably the closet door, covered in a sheet, and a desk and computer facing the windows at the far left corner. There’s a flat screen tv mounted to the wall opposite the bed, and a giant, round, really soft looking chair set next to a low bookshelf with a blue lamp on it in the corner to the left of the door, rows and rows of books and notebooks in it, with a set of markers and colored pencils at the top next to a few pens and mechanical pencils.

And then there’s Steve, on his side with his white t-shirt covered back to the door, mostly buried under a set of navy blue sheets and comforter on a king sized bed, hair a mess flying every which way and large shoulders lifting and dipping slightly with his soft, steady, even breathing. It’s strange to not hear his breathing uneven and fluttery at the end.

Bucky keeps his steps soft and quiet. It’s easier to when he reaches the giant white, fluffy rug that stretches out a few feet from under Steve’s giantass bed. He slowly rounds it, eyes intently on Steve’s still form while he tries take slow breaths, heart speeding up a bit. When Bucky finally sees his face, Steve’s eyes are closed. He’s got about a week’s worth of stubble on his face, which for him _still_ looks like it’s only been a few days. Bucky stops and really looks at him for the second time in ten years, still...overwhelmed with how _big_ he’s gotten. He used to be so small, on the outside, anyway, but now he’s taller than Bucky and can throw a damn good punch.

Bucky glances to the door, then back to Steve, not sure what to do now that he’s _here_. He used to be able to cheer Steve up just by doing the little things. Loving him was hard, it was work, because Steve is the most stubborn, hard willed person he’s ever _met_ , but it was also so damn easy. The easiest thing he’d ever done until it bit him in the ass.

He sighs silently, looking around.

Steve’s room isn’t a mess, so either he hasn’t really left his bed since they had their official reunion, or Sam’s been keeping it tidy. Bucky’s still not sure what to make of _that_ , but whatever. He’s had to live with Natasha and Barton more than once, and that probably officially broke his _What the Fuck_ meter.

He walks to the iPod speaker dock he spots on the nightstand and pulls the iPod out, turning it on and going through the songs. His lips twitch when he finds a mishmash of _everything_ , then he stills when he finds his album on there, too, both of them. He swallows and keeps scrolling, pausing and tapping an oldie but a goodie, something him, Steve, and Sarah all used to sing to when they were lounging at the park. Sarah was always humming, then Bucky started crooning and would cajole Steve into joining, who was always off-key as hell, and pretty soon they were all singing, just the three of them in the entire world.

He smiles softly, putting the iPod in the dock and making sure the volume’s low before he starts the song.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fS9QdF_0I8Q You Belong To Me by Patsy Cline

 

Patsy Cline’s voice is smooth and crooning among the slow beat, and it’s soft, makes him feel soft for the first time in a long while. He sits down carefully, slowly on the edge of Steve’s bed, humming quietly, barely anything. Before he knows it, he’s singing, just as soft and low and crooning as Patsy Cline. Steve shifts a little after a minute, turns his face a little more into his pillow and Bucky reaches forward, stops, hesitates before closing the distance and gently brushing Steve’s bangs aside, just a little. The little furrow between Steve’s brow slowly smooths out and he takes a longer, slower breath. The lingering tension in Steve’s shoulders seems to seep away too, and he curls up a little more. Bucky can see him then, little Steve Rogers under this hulking version, and his heart gives a low _thump_. It makes his hand pause on Steve’s hair, and he slowly pulls it away, turning a little to look out the windows at the city.

This side of the building is shaded, so the light is hitting the edge and windows of everything he’s looking at stretched out below. It’s a nice view, the river and connecting ocean stretched out in the distance.

The song changes and Bucky quietly hums along, mostly breath. He stays for two more and then stands up and moves out of the room, quietly closing the door most of the way behind him. He gives Sam a small nod on his way to the door, then pauses and goes back to where he’s lounging on the couch with some baking show on the tv. Bucky gives him his number, and Sam gives Bucky his, and then Bucky puts his shoes on and Sam locks him out.

In the bedroom, Steve stares at the bedroom door, eyes wet and heart hurting. He closes his eyes and turns back around after he hears the front door close, and reaches over, putting the song Bucky first sang to back on and curling up.

\--------------------------------------------------

Bucky stares out the window, tapping the end of his pen lightly against the notepad propped up against his raised knee and watches the sun reflect off the water, the people going to and from down in the streets below, cars stuck in afternoon traffic and bicycles weaving around them like quick fish.

‘ _He’s up_ ’, Sam had texted him this morning, ‘ _Still looks exhausted, but he’s going back to work today. Whatever you did, thanks_ ’.

He hears the elevator doors open and quiet footsteps, so quiet they’re almost silent.

“You seem awfully mellow today,” Natasha observes, “Have a nice trip to see an old friend?”

He slants a look, but it’s a halfhearted glare at best. He looks back out the window.

“Ooo, silent treatment. You sure know how to woo a girl, Barnes,” she drawls. She moves over and takes the opposite side of the windowsill, since he seems to have claimed this side. Seems like this is where his ‘therapy’ is going to keep happening. “How’d it go?” she asks, voice softer this time, serious.

He shrugs a little. “I don’t know,” he answers, subdued, “Sam said Steve’s going to work today.”

She leans back against the wall, bringing both her feet up on the sill and wrapping her arms around her legs. He glances over.

He’s known Nat a while, but she still doesn’t look her age. It’s kind of surreal, seeing her blend in with a sea of young adults when she’s a little older than he is.

“Sam the ex,” she teases gently.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Living together,” she muses, “They must get along like you and me.”

He huffs. “We never dated.”

“True, but we’re practically joined at the hip,” she teases again gently.

He huffs again, but his lips curl up.

He likes the quiet he can share with Natasha. It’s probably the most uncomplicated thing he’s ever felt, besides what he used to feel with Steve when Steve was feeling uncomplicated.

“What are you thinking?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know,” he near whispers after a moment, still staring down out at the city. He clears his throat quietly. “Moment of weakness.”

“Mm,” she hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, just understanding, looking down at the people below now too. It’s quiet again for a time, until she says, “Have you ever seen _The_ _Little Mermaid?_ ”

Bucky groans.

“I’m just saying, you and Prince Whatshisname seem to have a fair share in common.”

“Oh my God, shuddup.”

\--

He wanders the city that night, sunglasses on and hair shoved up into a beanie. He even switched to a hideous, blue denim jacket from Dugan just to retain some anonymity.

At least it’s _dark_ blue.

He walks, and walks, among the crowd, with it, against it, with no real destination in mind. His mind is still a slow swirl, thoughts scattered. He made himself finish another song draft before he left the building, at least, some small amount of work to balance his wandering night out. Morita offered to come when he ran into Bucky in the lobby, one of the last to head home, but Bucky declined. He’s not in the right headspace for company, he doesn’t think. Maybe some alone time, as alone as he can get on a New York City street at night, and some horrible, New York City air will help clear his head.

He wanders for another half hour until he comes across a little underground club, a bright pink flyer on the door catching his attention out of the corner of his eye. He backs up a few steps and turns, going down the short stairs and peering up over the top of his sunglasses to read the paper.

‘ _Open Mic Night_ ’.

He pushes his glasses back up and pushes the door open.

There’s someone singing already, some acoustic rendition of Rihanna’s _Diamond_ something-or-other. He heads to the bar and jots down his initials on the sign up clipboard before he can think too much about it, then orders a drink and settles in with it at a table close to the door, in case he loses his vague feeling of ‘ _whatever the fuck’_ and decides he needs a quick escape.

He takes his drink slow, but finishes it before the bartender calls, “ _J.B.!_ ” out from behind him. His stomach jumps a little, but he pushes himself up and heads up to the stage, pausing for a moment to detour and ask the acoustic singer if he can borrow her guitar. She’s hesitant, but nods with a small smile, and he thanks her with a smile of his own, turning back around and stepping up into the literal spotlight.

He pulls the nearby stool over and his nerves settle as he takes a seat and situates the guitar across his lap, strumming his fingers once, experimentally down the strings. He’s never had a problem being on stage, it’s just the before and after that tend to fuck him up. He strums the guitar again. It’s got a nice sound, and he resists the urge to tweak it, doesn’t want to fuck it up for the girl.

He strums his fingers across the strings again, and then a tune comes and he starts playing, slow, casual, sedate. He doesn’t know what he’s playing until the words come and he starts singing, just as sedate as the notes.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WuZ2jTEI_lc Who Am I Living For - Peter Yang Cover

 

He hears a whisper here and there at some point, hears a couple camera clicks and sees a few phones pointed at him, but he pushes it all aside, anything past the halo of light around him a vague, dark shape, ignorable, unimportant. He keeps his voice soft and low, lets it go deep, lets it curve higher when he needs. It’s soothing, settles him in ways nothing else ever does. His worries don’t go away, but they come out, show themselves under the light and unfurl their bunched up petals to bare themselves, whether anyone but him knows it or not. He can see them for what they are, make sense of them in a way he understands, and maybe someone out there can relate and do the same.

He finishes the last line, then the last string of notes. Everyone waits until the last one fades out to nothing before there’s a clamor of hoots and applause. He gives a small bow of thanks and hands the guitar back to the girl, who smiles widely at him. He manages a small one back and then moves, ignoring the free drink offers, the hands trying to pat him, grab him, and gets out of the club, up the stairs, and back onto the sidewalk, walking brisk and quick and breathing in the awful air, head tilting back with it. He can’t see the stars from down here, even over the edge of his sunglasses, and the air smells horrible, but his lips curve up a little and he feels lighter, clearer, thoughts and emotions more organized than the mess they were in his head just ten minutes ago.

He walks for a while more before eventually heading to his apartment, letting himself in and pulling his hat and sunglasses and shoes off, going straight to his bedroom to shower. He grabs his notepad when he comes back out and sits on top of his bed and writes, and writes, and writes, a few stray water droplets from his hair landing on and soaking into the pages.

\--------------------------------------------------

Steve squints at his screen, then rubs at the corners of his eyes, squeezing them shut as he leans back. He throws his arms up as he stretches out his shoulders and back, face scrunching up with it. He relaxes and sits back forward with a sigh, only to come face to face with a wide eyed Lorraine.

He blinks.

“Steve,” she says.

“Lorraine,” he says back.

She leans a little closer. “ _Steve_.”

“ _Lorraine_ ,” Steve counters with a hint of warning, because he’s starting to feel like there should be some in there.

“ _Check. Your. Email_ ,” she whispers gravely, then whips back around to her computer. Steve stares, but warily does, just as warily clicking the email she just sent a minute ago whose subject line is a long string of, ‘ _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ ’ “And put some headphones on,” she whispers quickly.

Steve grabs his headphones off his desk and puts them over his ears, frowning as he clicks the link. It opens up to a youtube video of a guy sitting on a bar stool under a spotlight on some sort of small stage, microphone in front of him as he strums a guitar. The video’s from a cellphone, a little shaky, and it takes Steve a moment to realize what’s going on, but then Bucky’s smooth, low voice resonates through his ears and he _shudders_ , eyes darting to the video title.

‘ _Bucky Barnes - The Commandos Sings Katy Perry Who Am I Living For Live_ ’

Steve stares at Bucky, can see it’s him now that the video’s holding still enough for a minute. He used to draw those lips, that nose, a smoother version of that stubbled jaw when he was sixteen and stupid in love.

His heart gives a kick and he swallows, moving his mouse and hovering over the ‘x’ button.

But he doesn’t close it, he watches and listens all the way through, then clicks replay before he’s even really processed he’s doing it, and watches and listens again. He makes himself minimize the browser so he can get back to work when Ms. Hill starts patrolling the room, but he keeps listening to Bucky’s low voice on loop, throat tight almost the whole time.

He sends the video to Sam on his lunch break, who texts back:

‘ _:0 Boy’s got a nice voice_ ’

Steve blows out a breath, making a face.

‘ _I feel like fireworks are exploding in my stomach. They’re not nearly as nice as butterflies_ ’

‘ _D: Sorry man. He does have a nice voice though_ ’

Steve sighs.

‘ _True_ ’

Bucky’s always had a nice voice.

Steve gets his food from the food truck and finds a table to eat at, texting with the other hand.

‘ _I don’t know what to do_ ’

His phone _pings_.

‘ _Why do you feel you have to do anything?_ ’

Steve makes another face.

‘ _How do I keep forgetting you’re a counselor_ ’

‘ _Idk Steve. Blinded by my stunning beauty I guess_ ’

Steve’s lips twitch up.

‘ _Also true_ ’

‘ _8)_ ’

He sighs around his mouthful of chicken sub.

‘ _But really_ ’

‘ _Question still stands_ ’

Steve looks out at the other people eating, milling around, talking on their phones and going places he can’t bother to think about, but he can still hear Bucky’s voice in his head, shaking him down like Bucky’s holding him at gunpoint without even trying, not a threat, but- something.

‘ _I don’t know. My gut keeps twisting like I have to do something. Halp’_

_‘I wish my sister never taught you slang’_

_‘;P’_

_‘You put that away mister. I do not deserve your sass-tongue. I am a Good Person_ ’

Steve huffs a laugh, smiling the first real smile he’s managed in over a week. It fades as he types his next text.

‘ _He used to sing to me all the time_ ’

Three little dots in a bubble. Steve waits for Sam’s reply.

‘ _So, remembered feelings?_ ’

Steve winces.

‘ _I feel bad talking about this with you’_

_‘Nah. We’re a done deal Rogers’_

_‘Yeah, I know. Still’_

_‘Oh shut up, you giant lab’_

_‘xP_ ’

‘ _NO TONGUE_ ’

The dots pop up and Sam sends another message before Steve can get the second word typed.

‘ _DON’T YOU DARE_ ’

Steve snickers, sobering again. His stomach gives another twist and his heart _thumps_ but he makes himself type:

‘ _He sang to me when he thought I was asleep the other day_ ’

The dots pop up again, but Steve shoots off another text, half wild and twice as blind.

‘ _I think I still love him_ ’

His heart is beating so hard it feels like the first time he told Bucky he _did_ love him, back- way back.

The dots disappear, then come back.

‘ _That’s normal. He was your first right?’_

 _‘Right_ ’

Three dots.

‘ _But’_

 _‘But_ ’

Steve agrees again, blowing out a breath. He taps out another text.

‘ _I’m being ridiculous. He hates me. I was angry at him for so long, and apparently he was just as mad at me, if not more’_

 _‘Fair_. _But_ ’

‘ _But_ ’

Steve groans, covering his face with the back of his hand for a second.

‘ _What did I keep telling you when you were having problems with Peggy_ ’

Steve frowns but blows out another breath.

‘ _Get your shit together Rogers’_

 _‘After that_ ’

‘ _Talk’_

_‘You know he’s pretty easy to find’_

_‘Oh God I don’t want to’_

_‘Such a shitty liar XD_ '

Steve tries to take a slow breath and mostly fails, blowing it out too fast.

Three dots.

‘ _Wanna text him instead?_ ’

Steve blinks, staring, then frowns.

‘ _Sam, you didn’t_ ’

‘ _Don’t say I never did anything for you’_

_‘Sam’_

_‘Who am I?_ ’

Steve sighs, lips curving up despite himself.

‘ _Saint. Angel. The best person I know. The holiest, most patient, most sassiest Lord of the Kitchen’_

 _‘Damn straight_ ’

It takes ten minutes, probably because Sam _is_ the best person Steve knows and doesn’t just give him Bucky’s number without asking. Steve’s heart leaps up into his throat when he gets a text message of a string of numbers because that means...Bucky said Steve could have it, right?

‘ _He agreed?’_

 _‘:)_ ’

Steve’s stomach twists so many times he almost feels like he’s going to be sick. He wraps the rest of his sandwich up and sets it down, then very carefully, very cautiously, more so than he needs to be, copies the string of numbers and puts them in his contacts under ‘BB’.

Steve stares at the contact, the little envelope button, takes a deep breath, and makes himself push it. Of course, then he has to take another deep breath and figure out what the hell to say. He settles for old habits.

‘ _Bucky_ ’

It takes a long minute and Steve staring intently, but eventually, three little dots pop up, then:

‘ _Steve_ ’

Steve stares at his name. It’s in the same text type as the one he sent, but it hits him so much harder. He tries to slow his heartbeat.

‘ _Is this…_ ’ He hesitates. ‘ _okay?_ ’ Sends it.

Three dots. They’re there for a while. Finally:

‘ _Dunno_ ’

Steve swallows.

‘ _Me neither_ ’

There’s nothing for a couple minutes.

The dots pop back up.

‘ _It’s easier_ ’

Steve nods, even though Bucky can’t see him, fingers shaking so bad he hits the wrong letter three times.

‘ _Yeah_ ’

Nothing again. Then:

‘ _How’s your father_ ’

Steve sits up a little straighter, jaw clenching, heart hammering, and stomach a tight knot.

‘ _Dead_ ’

Three dots.

‘ _Oh_ ’

Then:

‘ _Can’t say I’m sorry_ ’

Steve tries to type something, but he doesn’t know what to type. He wishes he could just nod and leave it at that. Instead, he ends up typing:

‘ _Cancer. Two years ago_ ’

 _Just after I got back_ , he thinks, gaze going unfocused until his phone chimes again.

‘ _Ah_ ’

Yeah. What would anyone say to that, let alone Bucky, who hated the man for a long, long time. It’s not like Steve didn’t, but...it was different for both of them.

There’s words pressing at his sternum, the back of his tongue, the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t think he should type them, doesn’t want to break this tenuous connection, but he blurts it out anyway, just like he always does, even if it’s not with his mouth this time.

‘ _I’m sorry_ ’

There’s nothing. Steve finally realizes his lunch break is almost over and jerks into motion, standing up and dumping his half eaten sandwich in the trash. He still feels a little nauseous, too much to try and finish it. He starts walking back down the street, staring down at his phone the whole time. He keeps it out until the last minute, and finally, he gets another _ping_ almost as soon as he sits back down at his desk.

‘ _Yeah_ ’

Steve’s not sure what to do with that, what to say back, what to think, so he turns his phone screen off and puts his phone away, trying to force his mind back on his projects due at the end of the day.

\--

Bucky stares down at his phone, the ‘ _Me too_ ’ waiting to be sent, his other fingers playing with the metal hanging from his neck through his shirt.

“You ready to go?” Natasha asks, jerking him out of his thoughts. He deletes the message and shoves his phone into his pocket. Natasha’s waiting for him at the door with the guys, the talk show host winding up to introduce them for the half time live show.

“Yeah,” he makes himself say, steadier than he feels. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and forces his thoughts clear. “Yeah.”

\--

Steve gets home, pulls out one of their stashed bottles of vodka, and chugs a quarter of the bottle. He can feel Sam staring at him from over the back of the couch, hears him move, but all he does is pull the container of Strawberry Cheesecake Ice Cream out of the freezer and set it on the counter, and dig out two spoons.

They end up on the couch in the living room watching Bucky’s live show, because Sam recorded it, because Sam is amazing.

It hurts to watch it, but Steve can’t stop staring at Bucky.

He feels like a teenage idiot all over again, staring up at Bucky with stars in his eyes.

“I’m so fucked,” he says, slurring a little.

Sam takes the nearly empty bottle of vodka out of his hand and hands him the ice cream again.

\--

Steve calls into work the next morning from the dark refuge of under his sheets and comforter to take the day off. Ms. Hill’s is a neutral voice, but Steve never calls in so she accepts it easily. He hangs up and shoves his phone out from under his sanctuary, then curls up, trying to find some blissful drifting state to pass his hangover in.

After a minute, his hand creeps back out from under the covers and flops like a dying fish around the bed, finally finding his phone and sucking it back under the sheets. He grits his teeth and bares the pain of the bright screen just to go through more pain.

‘ _Saw your show. Sam thinks ur gret_ ’

The soft _ping_ of his phone hurts worse than his heart for a change.

‘ _Sam has great taste. It’s a wonder he ended up with you_ ’

Steve squints blurrily at the screen, messily tapping out.

‘ _Extienguiating ucrmstances’_

 _‘???_ ’

Steve shoves his phone back out from under the bed and closes his eyes. He doesn’t clarify, and his only comeback is something about how Bucky was with him first, which- No.

\--------------------------------------------------

His co-worker Scott invites everyone to a bar downtown for St. Patrick’s Day. It is a terrible, terrible idea.

Steve invites Sam, who has a Date, capital ‘d’ and all, which means if Steve doesn’t go he’ll be left alone in the apartment all night by himself and may have to listen to Sam bring said date over _after_ the date and hear them...get to know each other better.

He decides to go.

It’s still a terrible idea.

\--

Lorraine throws her hands up, cheering with everyone else as Steve chugs a keg. He struggles to keep up with gravity but manages, but only barely. He pulls the tube away with a loud gasp and everyone yells and cheers. Lorraine throws her arms around his neck and gives his cheek a big, wet kiss. Or at least he thinks it’s wet. Both of his cheeks are kind of all wet from the beer overspill so it’s hard to tell.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, shoving him towards the bathroom. She pushes him into it, but doesn’t follow, thank God. He doesn’t need to make any more mistakes tonight than he already has. _God_ , he still remembers his last hangover from a couple weeks ago and doesn’t want to repeat it, but, _here he is, making the same mistake all over again_. Just like-

He stumbles over to the sink and washes his face off, fiddles with the knobs a little too long, squinting at their blurry, shiny little forms, and then paws at the paper towel dispenser until it finally gives up and surrenders something he can dry his face with. Steve pats at his cheeks, scrubs at his mouth, and uses the paper towels to open up the bathroom door, tossing them in the trash before he stumbles his way out.

“ _After party at Peter’s!_ ” someone yells.

“No! No, _guys!_ My _aunt!_ ”

“Is out of town! Don’t think we don’t know!” Wade chimes in, looping an arm hard around the back of Peter’s neck.

Steve rubs his forehead. He can practically feel tomorrow morning’s headache scouting the area and setting up camp in his brain already. Everyone makes their way out, or home, a few people leave in cabs, and Steve begs off taking one with Lorraine, giving her a tight smile.

“I’m just gonna get some water here first and then head home,” he tells her.

She smiles up at him, leans up to give his cheek another kiss, and then goes. He watches her blonde hair shine under the light, a little entranced with the way the color shifts, then decides he really needs that glass of water if he’s starting to feel like he’s going to wax poetic about his friend’s _hair_.

Steve finds a booth that isn’t stained with liquid of some sort by a window and sits, nursing his glass of water while rubbing at the side of his forehead, eyes closed. After a minute, he digs his phone out of his pocket as has become habit, and opens up his continuous text message with Bucky. He means to say ‘Happy St. Patty’s’, but what he ends up typing is:

‘ _Sam’s gonna move out with my replacement y_ ’

Sending it. He stares, closes his eyes, cringes, groans, then sets his phone on the table and downs half the glass of water. His phone _pings_ and he nearly slams the glass down on the table in his rush to pick his phone back up.

‘ _??? Are you drunk?’_

 _‘Bitch I might be_ ’

“Oh my _God_ ,” Steve groans aloud, dropping his forehead into his hand and then wincing hard, practically _feels_ his brain collide with his skull.

 _Serves me right_ , he thinks, _God, someone take my phone from me_.

His phone _pings_.

‘ _Do you need a ride?_ ’

He frowns at that.

‘ _I...don’t know? ??_ ’ he texts back. Bucky actually offered him a _ride?_

‘ _Where are you_ ’

Steve stares, feeling more confused than he feels is warranted, but types back:

‘ _Jack’s Bar downtown’_

 _‘Be there in thirty_ ’

Steve’s brow furrows, because _what_.

Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

He eyes his glass of water, then chugs the rest.

Scott paid for everything already, so Steve gives his glass back to the bartender and goes into the bathroom to pee while he...waits, he guesses. He sits back in his claimed booth, after, staring down at his entwined fingers on the table and the way his pale skin contrasts with the dark wood. Bucky was pale in that moonlight in the stadium, and _God_ , still so damn _beautiful_ -

A bell chimes somewhere and then after a minute, someone taps his shoulder. He jerks back and looks up and stares...and stares some more.

“Are you a devil?” he whispers, eyes wide.

The beautiful red haired woman smiles like a pleased cat. “‘ _Bitch, I might be_ ’,” she purrs.

Steve blinks, cheeks warm, but he’s too entranced by the way the light catches on her hair and makes the silhouette of it glow like fire to feel too embarrassed. Someone clears their throat and Steve’s eyes swivel over from the beautiful red woman to-

“ _Bucky_ ,” he blurts, jerking up and hitting his knees on the underside of the table with a wince. “ _Fuck. Ow_.” Someone coughs and he’s pretty sure someone snickers, but he’s too busy trying to slide out of the booth properly to figure out who’s doing what.

“Ready to go home, soldier?” the woman asks, and Steve jerks up straight to his full height, just about ready to salute before he remembers where he is. He relaxes again, but Bucky’s eyes are intent on him in a way they haven’t been...ever, he’s pretty sure. Fuck, his memory is a mess right now. He’s a mess right now.

...Who’s he kidding, he’s always been a mess, now it’s just more obvious.

The woman’s eyebrows are curved up, pleasantly surprised and amused, and now Steve’s starting to feel like the canary she’s going to eat. He has mixed feelings about that.

He wilts. “I’m not sure I can,” he confesses.

Bucky blinks and the woman tilts her head to the side.

“Sam might have... _company_ ,” Steve stresses, making a face, “Our walls are not very thick.”

“Hmmm...whatever shall we do about that…” the woman trails off, looking slyly over at Bucky, who glares back.

“Call him a cab. Like I _said_ ,” he replies firmly.

“Where’s the fun in that?” the woman asks, looking back to Steve, “Besides, I wanted to meet this Steve Rogers I’ve heard so much about.”

Steve frowns a little, looking between the two of them, then closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose when it starts making him feel dizzy. A strong hand grips his arm and he stops- Oh, swaying. It lets go as soon as he starts lowering his hand from his face.

“Uh…” Steve trails off, looking back to the two of them, “I should probably just go home.”

The woman hums noncommittally. “If you insist, but Bucky’s apartment is definitely large enough for the two of you. So is mine.” Her lips curl while Bucky glares at her again. Steve’s having a hard time keeping up.

“I don’t want to impose,” he says uncertainly, “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come.”

Her eyes shift back from Bucky to him at that, more serious than the smile still on her face. “What a sad thing to say.”

Steve blinks and Bucky looks down and away. Steve shakes his head a little after a minute and pulls his phone back out. “I’ll just...call a cab. Sorry for imposing.”

“Steve.”

Steve shudders then stills. It’s the first time Bucky’s said his name since they started texting. He slowly looks up.

Bucky sighs. “Shut up.” He turns and starts heading for the door. The woman’s lips quirk up again and she looks at him, then follows Bucky.

Steve frowns, but slowly puts his phone away and follows her.

The woman gently pushes him into the back of a low, sleek, black car that feels way too small for his long body, but he goes down like a bag of bricks and curls up, back to the side of the car and back of his head resting against the tiny, black tinted, triangular window. The red haired woman gets into the driver’s seat in front of him while Bucky gets into the passenger seat. Steve watches him just long enough to see him pull his seatbelt on, then closes his eyes so he doesn’t get into any more trouble. The car comes to life with a low, consistent purr that barely vibrates through his body, but helps lull him down somewhere between awake and sleep.

There’s low, quiet talking at some point, but he’s drifting too much to make out the words. A hand touches his knee at some point, big and warm, but it pulls away before Steve can lean into it or drag his eyes open, so he keeps them closed and keeps still.

The low, purring car comes to a stop some time later, and the sound of doors opening and the seat in front of him being pulled forward jolts him awake, at least enough to turn and try to pull himself up out of the car. He stumbles a little, but two strong hands catch him and a familiar smell hits his nose and Steve relaxes, leans into them, letting them lead him- somewhere, anywhere. It doesn’t really matter where.

He’s lead into a place with bright lights, then an elevator with just as bright lights, then down a hall and past a door, into an apartment that smells new. Someone eases him down onto something soft and then gently works off his shoes. Once they’re off, Steve curls up into a ball, half burying his face in the sheets. There’s footsteps, more low talking, and then a door quietly closing somewhere, and Steve sort of drifts.

Bucky stares down at Steve, curled up on his bed.

This is such a _colossally bad idea_.

Bucky stares for another minute, tracing over Steve’s features, the surreality of the whole damn thing, then makes himself move, sheds his coat and puts it over the back of a chair, grabs a pair of sweatpants, and heads into the bathroom to shower, closing the door quietly behind him. He doesn’t think about Steve, or tries not to, just gets himself clean, scrubs at his hair, and gets out. He dries off, puts his sweatpants on, brushes his teeth, then puts his clothes in the hamper after he gets the door open and steps out. The sight of Steve still curled up on his bed makes him pause, but he keeps walking, around to the other side of the bed to grab a pillow and to the closet to grab a spare blanket that came with the place. He sets himself up out on the couch and stares out into the dark of his large, empty apartment. Well, not so empty now, but it’s temporary, he tells himself, it’s just for tonight, because Nat likes to meddle and Steve is...Steve.

He was just standing there, looking confused and penitent, and...adorable, dangerously adorable. It’s the first time Bucky’s seen him since they started trying the whole texting thing. And if he’s being honest with himself, the rage he felt before has banked, and now he’s just...wary, cautious. He’s angry, but it’s not _just that_ anymore, and it’s confusing. And scary. Because Steve is easy to like, always has been, at least to him. He could always be an ornery little cuss before, but this Steve is...different. He’s a grown man now, not some kid forced to grow up faster than he should’ve been and trying to shoulder the weight of being his mother in his mother’s place while also trying to live his own damn life. Or maybe he is, but...he’s different, they both are, and Bucky’s not sure if he wants to learn the differences, learn to navigate them. It’s why he keeps their conversations short, why he doesn’t send at least half the things he types. ‘Once burned, shoulda learned’, or something.

He looks up past the short, raised leveling of the floor to the open bedroom straight back, can just make out Steve’s darker silhouette against the dark row of covered windows behind him.

Now Steve’s in his apartment, in his bed, and none of it is like old times. He doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do with Steve.

Bucky rolls over and closes his eyes, and tries to force his brain to stop thinking for five minutes so he can try to get some sleep.

\--

Steve groans low at the piercing headache trying to stab his brain with an ice pick and buries his face in his sheets, taking a slow breath-

And pauses, sniffing again and opening his eyes as he lifts his head.

These sheets smell like Bucky. And they’re black.

He slowly turns his head, looking around.

The room curves on the left side, covered windows blessedly blocking any and all sun. There’s a closed door straight ahead and the floor drops off five inches into a lower level living room with a couch along the wall at the right, and a-

He pauses, eyes lighting on the glass of water and two pills on the nightstand. He slowly scoots to the edge of the bed and over, popping the pills into his mouth and draining the glass in almost record time. He looks around for a note, but doesn’t see one, glancing back towards what’s probably the closed bathroom door. He can’t hear anything, but that doesn’t mean someone- Bucky, isn’t in there. Because it has to be Bucky. Steve would recognize his smell anywhere (which sounds a little creepy, he can admit, but when you grow up with someone and share the same bed off and on for about seven years, you get used to the way a person smells).

He slowly eases up off the bed, reaching up a hand to gingerly rub at the side of his head, probably making his hair even more of a disaster, and shuffles to the lower level living room on socked feet, heading left for the kitchen as soon as he spots it. He sets his glass down quietly on the black granite counter next to the way too shiny silver sink, and turns around to try and find his shoes-

Only to find Bucky standing just beyond the kitchen entryway in a pair of grey sweats, a black, baggy t-shirt with the sides cut out and no sleeves, and his ridiculous _arms_ on display.

Steve swallows. It’s too damn early for this.

“Hi,” he croaks, trying to clear his throat and wincing when it just makes his head pound harder.

“How much did you drink?” Bucky asks, coming closer. He goes for the fridge to the right right, thank God, and Steve tries to be subtle about edging around him to exit the kitchen.

“I don’t remember,” he answers a little hesitantly. Bucky glances back at him, some old warning in his eyes that makes Steve’s heart twinge, then quickly looks forward, pulling out a carton of eggs, some cheese, vegetables in painfully noisy, rattling plastic bags, and some wheat bread. He sets everything down on the counter, not roughly, not gently, then crouches down and fishes a pan out of a cabinet.

“You’re staying until you eat something,” Bucky says, almost orders.

Steve cringes. “Buck-”

Bucky nearly slams the pan down on the stove and Steve’s eyes squeeze shut briefly as he winces. Bucky looks a little apologetic, but it disappears and he just looks grumpy again.

Steve sighs. “Okay,” he concedes, turning to shuffle out of the kitchen and over to the couch. He spots his shoes sitting by the door and feels a little relief for that, at least. He can get away quickly if he really needs to. Which is ridiculous. And he is not actually twenty-one, scrambling out of Peggy’s apartment before her roommate gets home.

He lowers his head to the back of the couch and closes his eyes with a sigh. “Any chance those painkillers can knock me out on my ass until this hangover passes?” he asks.

“No such luck,” Bucky replies stiffly to the sound of an egg cracking.

Steve should offer to help him. He doesn’t.

Bucky works in silence, which is surreal, because he always used to hum and sing whenever he was doing just about anything, from his homework to his chores to cooking. But right now, he’s silent, and Steve’s trying to ignore the stifling tension that rises the longer he is.

It’s not long before he smells mouthwatering food, and he rolls his head to the right to look into the kitchen. Bucky’s fiddling around with something in the pan, Steve can’t see, but he’s assuming it’s an omelette. His suspicions are confirmed when Bucky finishes up, turns the stove off, and comes around the counter carrying two plates, a perfect omelette on each. He sets one down in front of Steve on the black glass coffee table and the other on the little side table next to the chair at the far end, then goes back into the kitchen to bring out two glasses of water, setting Steve’s pointedly down next to his plate without even having to look at him to do it.

Steve shrinks into the couch a little, watching Bucky move over to the far chair and sit through his lashes.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Bucky just nods a little and starts cutting into his food.

Steve reaches forward and takes his plate, sitting back and cutting into his own, subtly sniffing at the air when the steam rises out of the middle. He has to swallow, his mouth is watering so bad. He scoops up a forkful, blows on it, then takes a bite-

And moans long and loud, eyes shut and eyebrows drawn up together. He hears something clatter and darts his eyes over, but Bucky’s calm and collected, blowing on his own forkful, though his cheeks look a little pink. Steve ducks his head a little and finishes chewing.

They eat in more silence, which just feels...wrong, like they’re both hitting a wrong note in a tune they remember but are only half willing to play. It makes Steve’s enthusiasm for the omelette wilt, but he dutifully finishes it, then downs the glass of water in one go. He gets up to go put his dishes in the sink, keeping his eyes ahead. After, he heads over towards the door, pausing and hovering halfway through the living room against his better judgment.

“Um,” he says eloquently. Bucky gets up, goes around the other side of the table between it and the couch and puts his own dishes in the kitchen, then comes back out, stopping just a little past the kitchen entryway.

There’s so much distance between them, ten years of it crammed into that twelve feet. It feels...impossible. What has he been doing this whole time by texting Bucky? Trying to bridge it? It’s only now that he’s looking at how far away Bucky is that he realizes how...stupid that was of him, really stupid. Some brief texting over the course of two weeks isn’t going to repair much of anything, and however Steve may still feel, or feel _now_ , this is a two way street, and Bucky hasn’t...been very open to changing things either.

“I’m gonna-...go,” Steve trails off lamely, jerking his thumb towards the door like an idiot. Bucky’s eyes don’t lift from the carpet and Steve swallows, makes himself turn around, and starts walking. He jerks to a stop when Bucky says-

“Steve.”

How? _How_ is it one person, just one in the whole entire goddamned world, can stop him just by saying his name?

So Steve stops, and waits, and doesn’t turn around, just like he didn’t when he first ran into Bucky for the first time in ten years in front of The Commandos’ tour bus.

“Tell me why.”

Steve turns back at that, frowning a little over at Bucky, who’s looking at him now, fists clenched and expression determined, like he’s going to war. Steve swallows, and is fervently glad Bucky never did.

“‘Why’?” he asks.

“Why did you do it?” Bucky demands.

Steve blinks, brow furrowing a little even while the knots start up in his stomach again.

Bucky growls a little and Steve shudders. “Why did you break my heart like that? Then take all the shattered pieces and throw them in a goddamned blender? I wanna know.”

Steve stiffens, straightens, eyes a little wide, and looks away, swallowing hard. He looks back at Bucky, who’s still watching him, eyes hard and knuckles white, then away again, then forces himself to look back because Bucky deserves that respect, more than. His own fingers curl and Steve steels himself.

“Because you’re you.”

Bucky’s brows furrow, apparently not expecting that. His mouth opens-

“Because you’re...” Steve makes himself keep going, and Bucky’s mouth slowly closes, “Because you wanted to go places, do things. You had _dreams_ , Buck.” He spreads his arms, gesturing around. Bucky frowns. “And me? I knew I wasn’t leaving this city, not ever. I had a ball and chain shackled to my leg and I didn’t-” He stops, swallows hard, blinking the sting in his eyes back. “I didn’t wanna drag you down with me,” he continues, voice cracking, “God, Bucky, you were so bright. You _are_ so bright. When I said those mean, _stupid_ things, I barely believed the words coming out of my damn mouth. I knew you were going to leave, I knew it, someday you would go, and you would want me to go with you, and I couldn’t, because I had to take care of my dad, take care of myself, and I couldn’t do both of those things if I went with you, no matter how badly I wished I could.”

Steve’s lower lip trembles and he bites it viciously, wipes at his eyes when the tears spill over and Bucky blurs.

“I knew you’d be amazing,” he struggles to get out, voice straining and going high. He covers his eyes with a hand, grits his teeth and just tries to breathe for a minute. It’s so quiet. He misses the sound of Bucky’s music. “And you _are_ ,” he chokes out, covers the rest of his face, “ _Fuck_ ,” he croaks, broken and raw. “I couldn’t leave,” he sniffs hard, trying to wipe the never ending tears off his face, “I couldn’t leave,” he repeats, trying to clear his throat and look up. Bucky’s face is wet, too, but he hasn’t made any move to try and wipe his tears away. Bucky’s just staring at him like Steve broke his heart all over again, and Steve never _wanted_ that. Steve sniffs hard. “I loved you,” he says, shaky and open and honest, maybe the first time in a long time, “I loved you so much.” Bucky bites his own trembling lower lip. “God, you were the _sun_. I did what I thought I had to so you would shine and everyone would damn well know how _special_ you were, how _good_ you were.”

Steve has to stop and try to breathe for a minute again, wiping at his face. Bucky finally wipes at his own, but his eyes and cheeks and nose and lips are red and he’s- He’s still so beautiful, even when he’s probably as much of a mess as Steve is.

“I should’ve- I should’ve told you no, when you proposed to me,” Steve manages. Bucky jerks his head up from where it’s lowered to wipe at his face, eyes on his. “I should’ve,” Steve says, as firm as he can, but then he breaks all over again, “But I was just so _happy_.”

 

_Steve stares down at Bucky on his knee, at the ring in his hand. His ma’s dead two months now, his dad’s so drunk he can’t even get out of his recliner without help, and even then, he punches Steve, shoves him into a wall when he tries, and yells his mom’s name at him like her dying is **his** fault, like him loving Bucky is **his** fault, like him not being straight is **his fault.** _

_And here’s Bucky, bright, beautiful Bucky with dreams and hopes and goals beyond this shitty little part of the world, trying to give him everything he can never have, because his dad can’t take care of himself, can barely cover the rent with his VA checks, nevermind food, because Steve feels like he’s going to be trapped here forever, and doesn’t know how to climb out of that hole, and Bucky’s throwing him a rope he can’t use, because his ma’s gone, and he has to take care of things now, and Bucky wants to leave, has always wanted to leave, and Steve’s stuck here like a pole forced too deep into the ground, just trying to get by long enough to make it to tomorrow without too many broken bones and bruises._

_Steve should tell him no, and he opens his mouth to do it, but tears run down his cheeks and he says, “Yes,” instead, and Bucky’s face lights up like fireworks and he kisses Steve like New Years, and Steve’s heart hurts so much for two completely opposite reasons he can’t hardly breathe. This is the first time he’s felt light as a bird since his ma died, and like the heaviest stone in the ocean, because he knows this won’t ever work, Bucky’s dreams won’t reach him, won’t even touch him. Bucky thinks they’ll get the happily ever after they like to dream up, when Steve knows he’s just going to end up breaking his beautiful heart._

_**He’s so fucking selfish.** _

 

“I knew it wasn’t going to work,” Steve struggles to get out, tears hot on his cheeks all over again, “ _I’m sorry. I’m so goddamned sorry, Bucky_.”

Bucky’s face crumples, and Steve can’t take it anymore, he can’t. He’s tired of being brave, and Bucky’s always been the one thing that can knock him to his knees without even saying a _word_. One look and Steve’s fallen on a sword he can’t pull himself off of without tearing pieces of himself away. So he runs to the door, half blind with all the damn tears, and struggles to get his shoes on. Bucky shouts his name, just like he did all those years ago, and Steve cringes, hunching in on himself. He manages to get one shoe on before something hard and heavy tackles him right into the front door and knocks the breath out of him, struggling as arms wrap around him, tight as a vice and hard as steel.

“ _Steve! **Steven Grant Rogers!**_ ” Bucky shouts, and Steve goes completely still, breathing hard like a rabbit caught in a trap. They’re both tense for what feels like a stretch of eternity, Bucky breathing hard and shaky at the back of his neck and Steve smashed up against the door, hands trapped at his sides so he can’t even push away. Bucky’s forehead _thumps_ against his shoulder and Steve’s breathing goes shallow, then nearly stops completely when Bucky says, low and vehement and so angry Steve wants to shake, “You _idiot. You **fucking idiot.**_ ”

The arms around him tighten and then Bucky’s sliding down, pulling Steve to the floor with him. They end up in a heap and Steve finally jerks back to action, but Bucky’s already forcing him around and trapping him down against the floor, pinning him like a butterfly. When Steve looks up, Bucky’s eyes are blazing, angry, and so deeply sad all Steve can think of is the ocean, even though his eyes aren’t the right color. And then movement catches Steve’s eye, and he shifts his gaze from Bucky’s eyes to the thing hanging down from his neck-

And freezes.

It’s a ring, the ring, the one Bucky proposed to him with, the one Steve tore off and threw at him. It’s worn, shine diminished, but the inscription is still wrapped around the inside in Bucky’s blocky script:

 

‘ _’Til the end of the line. - Love Bucky_ ’

 

Steve’s vision blurs all over again, and then Bucky says, low and quiet and shaky, “ _That’s how I felt about you, you damned idiot_.”

Steve hiccups a sob, then another one, and another until that’s the only sound he can make, hiccup breaths and loud sobs while his fingers curl into fists and his heart breaks, all the pieces he managed to glue and tape back together crumbling into a scattered wreck, and through it all, he feels Bucky’s tears drop onto his face.

Steve cries, long and hard with ten years worth of heartache, heartbreak, pretending to be fine, and then having whatever scraps of a life he managed to cobble together into something normal shattered back into a blank slate. He hears Bucky cry, hears him sob, and it just makes his heart hurt so much worse. It hurts everywhere inside, his head, his heart, feels like the cracks run the length of them both until Bucky finally settles on top of him and that gentle press shatters them both to pieces.

It’s a while before either of them quiet down, a while before either of them doesn’t have to struggle to breathe. Bucky reaches up and gently wipes Steve’s nose and face clean with the bottom of his shirt, then does the same with his own, then he lays back down, face pressed to the side of Steve’s head and hands loose on Steve’s wrists, Steve’s fingers slack. For all that the touch is gentle, Steve feels like he’s trapped under a mountain he can’t and won’t move.

It’s the first time he’s ached this badly but felt this...peaceful.

“I love you,” Bucky whispers at his ear.

Steve shudders.

“I love you,” he whispers back. He feels Bucky press a kiss to the end of his jaw and swallows hard, tears welling and spilling over into the sides of his hair.

“I don’t think I ever stopped,” Bucky whispers into his skin, drawing the tip of his nose up through the tear trail.

Steve swallows. “What are we going to do?” he makes himself whisper back.

“Whatever the fuck we want,” Bucky answers, like it’s that simple. _Is_ it that simple? Can it be that simple now? After everything?

“I thought you hated me,” Steve whispers, can’t make his voice go any louder.

Bucky shifts a little, slides his hands from Steve’s wrists to the floor and pushes himself up enough to look down at Steve. Bucky’s hair is a bit of a mess, looks like he went outside and the wind was blowing. His eyes are a little puffy and red, his nose and lips and cheeks and forehead are red, too. He looks a bit like a vampiric tomato.

Steve’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“It’s a thin line,” Bucky says, low and quiet, manages to get his voice above a whisper, though not by much. He looks at Steve closely, brows drawn together a little and mouth a firm line.

Steve holds his breath.

Bucky slowly lowers himself down, tilts his head a little- Steve feels his breath against his lips, eyes still on Bucky’s, watching Bucky watch him. It’s a question, a request, and a test all rolled into one. Steve doesn’t know if he can pass it or not, but-...but he wants to try.

...No, he wants to _pass_.

“You still-....want...?” Steve trails off, swallows. Bucky’s eyes soften, the first real time Steve’s seen them do it since before he shattered Bucky into a thousand pieces. He wants to look away, doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but he can’t stop staring up at Bucky, either.

“Idiot,” Bucky says quietly, breath ghosting across his lips, and then Bucky lowers himself and their lips meet, and Steve’s eyes finally fall closed as he pushes up the slightest bit into it. The kiss is soft, light, just the gentlest of pressure. Steve feels tears stream down his cheeks again, and feels them land on parts of his face they can’t be. Bucky pulls up and Steve opens his eyes, sees the tears on Bucky’s face.

“We’re a mess,” Steve says, soft and low and quiet.

“Darlin’,” Bucky says, and Steve shudders hard, hasn’t been called that in such a long, long time, “We’ve always been a mess. But I think we’re a better mess together, than apart.”

“Do you?” Steve can’t help asking, eyebrows drawing together.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “I damn well should’ve took you with me anyway. You never used to be this unsure.”

Steve loses the struggle not to let his eyes skitter away, and Bucky sits up so he can reach down and cup Steve’s cheek, but bends down low again and keeps close, drawing Steve's eyes back.

“We’re not who we were, I know that,” Bucky says quietly, soft and serious, “But I wanna know you. I wanna love you.” Bucky blinks hard when his eyes start to shine again. “Steve, do you want to try with me?”

 

_“Hey, Steve? Here.”_

_Steve takes the valentine, staring at it. His face scrunches up. “Buck, we’re not twelve anymore.”_

_“So?” Bucky says, leaning back against the doorframe next to Steve’s desk._

_“So, valentines are for kids,” Steve says back, looking up at him._

_Bucky rolls his eyes. Fifteen and taller than Steve, and starting to put on muscle in places Steve never will, but he still rolls his eyes like he’s older than he should be, which is a weird contradiction. “Would’ya just **open** it?”_

_Steve sighs, as put upon as his mother does when she finds Steve covered in dirt, and does as Bucky asks, then stills when he reads the words inside:_

_‘ **Roses are red**_

**_Violets are blue_ **

**_Steve, I can’t help_ **

**_But love you_ **

**_Can you love me too?_ **

**_\- Love Bucky_** ’

_Steve swallows. “This isn’t a joke?” he asks, glancing up at Bucky._

_Bucky stares back, as unreadable as he is in poker against the twins down the street. “Do you hear me laughin’?”_

_Steve’s eyes dart back down to the poem, then up to Bucky, then back again. He slowly reaches over and grabs a pen, hunching over as he writes. He quickly closes the valentine after he’s done and hands it back._

_Bucky takes it, still unreadable, opens it, and looks inside. Steve watches his eyes move over the bottom, sees his throat bob, then look up. “Yeah?” he asks quietly._

_Steve nods, once, sharp and jerky on his thin neck, but decisive. Bucky pushes up off of the doorframe and closes the door behind him and Steve’s eyes move up, follow him as he steps close, then slowly crouches down, looking up at him._

_“You really love me?” Bucky whispers, eyes softening, going open and vulnerable. Steve nods again, slower this time, gentler, and Bucky shifts to his knees so he can slowly sit up, then stops, holds still, lips just an inch away. “I really love you too, Steve,” he whispers, just for the two of them, and Steve lowers his head and presses his lips to Bucky’s, as soft and gentle as the look in Bucky’s eyes. It only lasts about ten seconds and then Bucky’s pulling back, but it’s the best ten seconds of Steve’s life. Bucky’s lips slowly curl up into a cheeky smile. “Be mine?”_

_Steve rolls his eyes. “ **Obviously.** ”_

_Bucky grins and leans up to kiss him again, laughing quietly into it._

 

Steve stares up at him, eyes welling.

“Be mine?” Bucky whispers with a watery smile.

The tears spill over again ( _will he ever stop crying?_ ). “Is it really that easy?” Steve asks.

Bucky smiles a little more. “Not everything has to be a fight, Steve.”

Steve's face crumples, and he nods quickly, reaching up. He hesitantly touches his fingertips to Bucky’s overheated cheeks, relishing the way Bucky’s eyes fall closed like he feels just as helpless as Steve does. “Yes,” Steve whispers, “Yes. I love you. I want to be with you. I want to make it work. Yes.” Bucky’s eyes open and tears spill onto Steve’s face again, and Steve leans up just as Bucky leans down, meeting him in the middle for the first time.

Steve gently tugs him down, and his heart skips a beat when Bucky _lets_ him. He carefully pushes his fingers up into Bucky’s hair, shudders at the low groan Bucky gives like he’s dying, or like he’s just realized he’s living, and returns it with one of his own when Bucky tilts his head further and deepens the kiss, sparks catching fire and setting him ablaze from the inside out. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, and Bucky shifts, rolls so they’re both on their sides and he can wrap his arms around Steve, tangle their legs together. They break the kiss and press their foreheads together, just breathing the same air like they used to, like they can again.

“I’m not letting go this time,” Steve whispers, tightening his hold.

“I never want you to,” Bucky whispers back, and presses closer.

 

‘ _ **I loved you first**_

**_I’ll love you last_ **

**_‘Til we’re old and grey_ **

**_I’ll always love you this way_ **

_**-Love, Steve** ’_

 

\--------------------------------------------------

_Epilogue_

 

 

 

Steve pushes Bucky back, laughing when Bucky just clings tighter and tries to pull him back in. “ _Buck_. You’ve gotta _show_ to start.”

“Sure I can’t start a different show instead?” Bucky croons in that deep, low voice that always makes Steve shudder, but the eyebrow waggling Bucky does with it and that cooky grin just makes him laugh again. Steve shoves him back again and it must be far enough because he hears someone out in the crowd squeal. Bucky frowns, borderline a pout, but whirls away with a smile on his face as he finally steps out onto the stage. “ _Hey, everyone!_ ” Bucky greets into the mic.

The crowd _surges_ and _screams_ and Steve smiles from backstage. He catches red shift into his periphery and nearly jumps out of his skin when he realizes Natasha is standing next to him, slapping his hands over his mouth just in time to contain his squeal. He takes a slow breath in through his nose to calm his damn heart while she smiles with a slow, pleased curl of her lips.

“How do you-” he starts, before Bucky’s words catch his attention.

“ _-ight’s a special night. As you may have seen on Instagram or Twitter, probably even that other site Tumble or something. My manager says I’m clueless when it comes to social media, which, to be fair, she’s basically the Queen of Social Media_ ,” he continues into the mic, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Natasha, “ _Outdone by one woman only, who will remain unnamed_.”

Natasha regally inclines her head. Challenge Accepted.

Bucky smirks, looking back out at the crowd. “ _Anyway, as you might’ve seen, I’ve been out and about with someone, and I’d like to introduce him tonight_.” He looks back over and his eyes land on Steve, who’s frozen like a deer in headlights. He rapidly shakes his head and Bucky puts on a dramatic pout, speaking sideways to the crowd. “ _He’s nervous. He gets stage fright, which is damn confusing because he’ll fight with anything and anyone, including himself. Steve, don’t make me come back there_.”

Steve shakes his head again, crossing his arms over his chest, and barely has time to register Natasha’s soft, “ _Now_ ,” before something’s ramming into his back and shoving him forward out onto the stage. The lights blind him, but he feels warm, familiar hands take hold, catch him, like they always do, and gently tug him forward. Steve looks back towards the backstage area to see Clint Barton grinning and waving, standing next to a smug and smirking Natasha.

“This,” Bucky says, low and soft and sweet, but it comes from all of the speakers all over the stage and makes Steve shudder, eyes swiveling back to him. Bucky smiles, eyes soft. “Is the love of my life, Steve Rogers. Steve, everyone,” he says, tilting his head to the crowd, then back, “Everyone, Steve.”

There’s cheering, screaming, so much noise and commotion Steve doesn’t know where to look, eyes darting all over the energetic faces in the crowd that seems to go on forever past the lights. He doesn’t realize his mouth is open until Bucky gently kisses the side of it. There’s a loud chorus of “ _Awwww_ ” and Steve flushes beet red from his hair to his neck, snapping his mouth shut.

He looks over when he hears Lorraine and _Sam_ hollering and cheering from the backstage, ducking his head. “Hi,” Steve mumbles into the mic. There’s another loud chorus of “ _Awwwww_ ” and Bucky grins. He reaches up to cover the mic with a hand, leaning away from it with Steve.

“I got Sam and Lorraine backstage passes so they could come. Hope you don’t mind,” Bucky says quietly, looking a little nervous around the eyes for the first time all night.

Steve blinks, tries to shake himself out of his shock and smiles, small and real. “I don’t mind. I just wasn’t expecting to be up here with you. It’s where _you_ belong.”

Bucky shakes his head, looping an arm around Steve’s waist and tugging him close, pressing a firm, sweet kiss to his lips which gets another round of screaming. It’s easier to ignore with Bucky’s lips on his. “It’s where _we_ belong,” Bucky corrects after he pulls back, looking at him, as confident and decisive as he’s ever been.

Steve can’t help ducking his head just a little, but he’s smiling, and nods.

Bucky smiles back, kissing him again. "’Til the end of the line, right?” he asks, searching Steve’s eyes.

Steve nods again, as decisive as he was when Bucky first asked him if he loved him. “‘Till the end of the line, Buck.”

Bucky smiles, big and bright, and Steve’s smile widens too until they’re both grinning like kids again. Bucky kisses him one more time, long and lingering, before finally letting go. Steve doesn’t go far, backs up until he can take a seat on one of the large speakers at the side of the set. Dugan twirls his drumsticks and taps out four beats and then Morita, Gabe, and Falsworth start playing while Bucky uncovers the mic. He starts singing with his eyes on Steve, and that’s how he ends the concert, too.

And after, when they’re sitting on the roof of Bucky’s apartment complex and looking up at the stars, Bucky takes off the ring around his neck and offers it to Steve and asks, soft and quiet, but firm, even if his eyes are open and hopeful and vulnerable, “Will you marry me again?”

And Steve realizes Bucky was right, not everything has to be a fight, because it’s easy this time to bow his head forward a little, let Bucky put the necklace on him a second time, and say _yes_ , pulling him in, both of them smiling bright and watery into the kiss.

Not everything has to be a fight, and not everything has to be hard. That’s not to say they don’t work at it, that there aren’t good days _and_ bad days, but Steve’s come to realize he can let go, and some things can be as easy as just loving and trusting Bucky, and letting Bucky love and trust him, and saying _yes_.

 

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Some fun facts that didn't make it into the story:
> 
> \- Bucky loves mushrooms on his pizza, Steve can't stand them  
> \- Peggy is indeed with Angie in present time and they're living together in London while Peggy runs a private, powerful corporation like a Boss  
> \- Natasha does have her comics cat named Liho at home. She also used to be a singer herself before moving into a management position in her late twenties. She discovered Bucky some time towards the end of her singing career and fell in love with his voice and the band's sound/vibe instantly.  
> \- The First reigning Queen of Social Media is Pepper Potts  
> \- If I had made a proper playlist for this, this would've been the first song on it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xv11vZj4Z0g The Bliss by Volbeat, along with a lot of Patsy Cline
> 
> A Completely Different Note:  
> \- I very nearly made the summary: _"It's been ten years, and I can still smell the fresh paint..."_ but realized no one would probably read this if I did that.
> 
> EXTRA TIDBITS, because someone asked and I got to thinking and if anyone's curious, here you go, just gonna copy/paste:
> 
> Aaand to answer your wonderings as best as I can, because I don't have an entirely clear picture of it either since I never went into it, Steve joined the army in part to use his pay to help his father and to pay for college since he had very little means to do either. They didn't have much money and he was pretty desperate to fulfill his self appointed obligation and try to live his own life, and his father being. :/ The dirtbag that he is, and I hate thinking it, WOULD think that joining the army was a sign of Steve 'getting over that funny business with other boys and becoming a real man' sort of nonsense. Ugh, I feel dirty just having to think that blegh. Too bad for him Steve stretched his newfound freedom and finally really got to grow into himself lol. AND MET SAM.
> 
> Here's the Sam bit:  
> Sam was in pararescue at the same time Steve was in the army and Sam was sent to save Steve on a mission gone wrong. I forgot to put in the facts at the bottom that Steve does, actually, have scarring from said mission that he got during his tour. They ended up bonding during/after and then when they both got out, Steve ended up going to the VA Sam works at during his college/early days of his starting his job at Stark Industries and they were together for a bit. Like, maybe 6 months, but since neither of them are frivolous where relationships are concerned, they were pretty serious and thinking about getting married, before realizing they were better off as best friends.
> 
> THE PEGGY BIT you did not ask for since I'm apparently trying to work out this timeline while I'm thinking about it XD :  
> Steve met her early in his army time, probs during training (CA mirror yay) where she was a fellow agent, and/or he met her while he was stationed somewhere but I kind of think SHE was stationed where HE was and they also grew pretty close pretty quickly, like Steve and Sam did. Boy does not take his relationships lightly. BUT, career differences and Peggy wanting to go back to London while Steve had other plans led to them breaking up, but they're still close friends who talk over Skype now and then and he's met Angie (the two are terrible together and Peggy has to put up with so much sass they enable each other so bad).
> 
> LASTLY, another note on Sam:  
> I kept thinking Steve brought him home and or Sam ended up tagging along with Steve during a visit to Joseph and MET him and I'm kind of cackling because in my head Joseph was very not happy but by that point Steve was in the "fuck you, this is who I am" stage at LAST. So. That didn't go well for Joseph and Steve mostly didn't give a rip. Mostly. I mean deep down he's still a mess because of the way he grew up, but he was moving in the right direction for himself at that point.


End file.
